Soirées Noires: A San Spade Detective Story
by Eve Random
Summary: Nobody knows the wicked ways of Metropolis like Santana Lopez, PI. In San's world, the women tend to be drop dead gorgeous and the men tend to drop dead. Britt walked in that steamy summer night and San knew she was trouble in black nylons and red heels.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: In the tradition of the classic film noir and hard-boiled detectives of the 1940s epitomized by Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe, I give you Santana Lopez, Private Eye...**_**  
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**Chapter One**

**September 1947**

The skies were dark, the heavens were sobbing, and the winds were howling, a day custom-built to match my mood. Nonetheless, I pulled my fedora down low, buckled the belt of my trenchcoat, and pulled up the collar as I pushed my way out onto the courthouse landing. Modeled after the Pantheon in Rome and the newly dedicated Jefferson Memorial in Washington, the white marble courthouse was a gleaming white ghost amongst the other grime-grey concrete and steel buildings in Metropolis. Part of me liked to think it would live up to its Greek temple-inspiration and be a beacon of justice in this corrupt town, but reality was it was just a brand new building. With enough time, everything in Metropolis was dirty.

Reaching a spot barely under cover of the portico, it took me three tries to light up a smoke before the Metropolis winds could mockingly blow out my match. I shivered as the first hot plumes of smoke inflated my lungs and I wondered just what else today had in store for me.

_Clang clang clang_

The jury was in. Even through the din of the milling crowd of reporters and lawyers and general lookey-loos, the court officer's bell cut through the noise and we all snapped our heads to look. I glanced down at my watch; fifteen minutes. I couldn't remember whether fast was good for the defendant or good for the executioner. I had the feeling this reminder was going to be one I'd never forget. Stubbing my cigarette out with the heel of my shoe, I let the mass of the crowd fight their way back into the courthouse while I lingered in the back, not up to being jostled, and frankly in no rush for what I was about to hear.

"Mister? Can I bum a smoke off ya?" I turned to see a young man in an ill-fitting suit jogging up the two or three dozen steps from the street level. Looking at me nervously, he patted his pockets as if to prove he had no smokes on him. Turning down my trenchcoat collar, I untucked my past-shoulder length black hair from inside the coat to let the kid see his mistake.

"Oh! Ma'am, I'm sorry…I thought…I'm sorry."

"No sweat, kid," I said. I retrieved the pack of cigarettes from my inside breast pocket and tossed them his way. "Have the whole pack. Today's the day I'm quitting."

Most of the throng had taken their places inside the courtroom by now. I took my time, shaking the rain off my trenchcoat before I folded it over my arm and walked down the corridor to courtroom 19D. Depositing my coat and hat on the brass coatrack outside, I chuckled at the grandiosity of the new courthouse. Brass, leather, mahogany, and marble everywhere the eye could see. Too bad the average Joe would never see the inside of this place. Instead, this beauty was wasted on murderers, thieves, and liars, and sometimes their paying clients too.

It was standing room only, which was fine with me. I didn't intend to hear whatever was about to be said sitting down. I ran my fingers along the creases in the slacks of my best navy blue suit. I knew better, but I tugged my trouser leg a little to see the damage the rain had done to my favorite pair of suede pumps.

"I forget you're a dame sometime until I get a look at those heels of yours," said Puckerman. He glanced down at my ruined heels and winked at me. I'd known Puckerman for, well, too long. He was a reporter on the courtroom beat and whenever I needed to know what was going down in this building, he was my first call. He popped a fresh bulb into the flash of his camera and smiled. "How do you think this one's gonna go, Lopez? Is your girl going away?"

I shot him a warning glance and looked back up to see the court officer commanding everyone to rise for the Honorable Judge Sylvester. "She's a client. It's not wise to mix business and pleasure."

"I bet it was a pleasure doing business with her. Besides, who ever accused you of bein' wise Lopez?"

Puckerman winked playfully, but the sneer on my face could have sobered up a drunk rounding the bases on a payday bender. Before I could skewer him with some pointed digs of my own, the jury was ushered in and a deadly hush fell on the courtroom. I squinted, trying to see if they avoided looking at the defendant- another courtroom palm reading trick of which I'd forgotten the exact meaning. The lead juror was a man in his mid-fifties whose forehead was winning the battle against his hair for control of his head. He had a habit of grimacing as if he'd been expecting an orange but had gotten a mouthful of lemon.

"Have you reached a verdict?" Judge Sylvester intoned, looking sternly over the top of her silver rimmed spectacles. She adjusted her raven-black velvet robe around her and shifted side to side ever so slightly to settle in like a bird in a nest, perhaps in tribute to her plumage.

"Y- yes, we have your honor," the jury foreman replied, his voice a good octave higher than normal. Coughing, he repeated in his normal register, "Yes. Yes, we have your honor."

The blank-faced bailiff extended a hand to the juror who passed him a bright yellow folded piece of paper, which he then handed to Judge Sylvester. The judge raised a pencil-thin eyebrow as she began unfolding the slip.

"Rumor has it Sylvester raises her eyebrow before looking at every verdict so no one can read her expression," Puckerman said in a stage whisper so loud the now stern-faced bailiff barked out a 'quiet in the courtroom'.

My thoughts and my eyes drifted to the defendant. She sat directly opposite the jury, dressed in a simple blue dress, no doubt the suggestion of her lawyer. She looked at Judge Sylvester, across the faces of the jury and then the crowd in the courtroom, searching for a pair of eyes belonging to a sucker. When her baby blues found mine, she stopped.

Judge Sylvester's face was set to its customary frown as the slip of paper was passed back to the head juror, who wiped his shaking hands on his plaid suit and began to read.

"We, the jury, in the case of the People of the State of New York versus Brittany Anderson AKA Britt Noir, find the defendant…"

**II**

**July 1947 [Nuit Sur Les Champs-Elysees (take 1) | Miles Davis]**

It was 11 o'clock on a miserable Thursday night, Metropolis was a concrete oven set to bake, and I was a Christmas ham that was just about done. Normally, the prospect of climbing six flights of stairs to the office loaded up like a pack mule would have been reason to take the elevator. But if the streets of Metropolis were an oven, the ventless elevator was a broiler, and this ham had already learned her lesson. Huffing up the stairs like the 7:15 from Poughkeepsie, I prayed the air inside the office would be a degree or two cooler than it was in the staircase. I could see the light on in Artie's office through the yellowing bubble glass, so I didn't bother to fish for my key and just leaned into the door to enter.

The lights were off in the main office where the secretary's desk was. She'd escaped for the night, smart gal. My office and Artie's sat opposite each other down a hallway so short it was an insult to real grown-up hallways. The light in my office was off, but the light from the window above Artie's office provided dim illumination; everything in the room casting elongated shadows. I tried my best to creep in, removing my fedora and tossing it on a chair, my liberated hair tumbling down onto my shoulders. I often wore men's (or rather boy's) suits and hats as disguises on stakeouts. I'd found a woman sitting alone in a car for hours drew too much attention. Police officers, young children, and generally concerned citizens would knock on the window during a "covert" surveillance operation and ask if I needed medical help or some other assistance. With the addition of a suit, a hat to hide my hair, and a newspaper to duck behind, I could be left alone for what sometimes felt like days. I'd gotten quite use to my suits, they were nearly my daily attire now. Still, on a sweltering night like this, a jacket and tie were not my favorite parts of the job.

My prayers for cooler climes had gone unanswered and the office felt just as hot and muggy as a big kiss from Fido. The overhead fan was spinning, but the only thing it was moving was the shadows across my desk. I shrugged off my jacket, placing it on the back of my chair, and contemplated turning the fan up a notch or cracking the window open, but decided against risking the noise. If Artie's lights were on this late, he'd either fallen asleep reading one of my more exciting reports, or he was schmoozing a client. If he was asleep, I'd rather let him get the shuteye. If the latter were the case, the last thing I had in mind for this inglorious evening was putting on a happy face for a client. If I could get any part of my surveillance notes typed up, I could sneak out of here and hit a bar before calling it a thankless night and retiring to my basement apartment. Artie ragged me constantly that my windowless apartment was essentially a tomb. That probably wasn't far from the truth, but on nights like these, a cool tomb and a drink was exactly what I wanted.

My chair squeaked as I sat down and I froze, eyes shooting to Artie's door. After a second without a response, I leaned back, content he still hadn't heard me. Pulling a rubber band from off the little ball I'd compiled, I fixed my hair up off my neck in a messy bun, restoring a bit of cool to my composure. I flipped open my notebook, inserted two pieces of paper and a carbon in the typewriter, and sighed. My bottom desk drawer called out to me and I pulled it open with the tip of my foot, retrieving a half full bottle of whiskey. I had two shot glasses in the drawer, but tonight I wasn't one for ceremony and I took a swig directly from the bottle. The mouthful of hooch burned my tongue familiarly and I swallowed; not smooth, not tasty, but certainly potent. Feeling momentarily refreshed, I cracked my knuckles, and started as quietly as I could, pecking out the words from my notes on the state of the art Underwood typewriter.

Artie must have been waiting for me because as I was about to hit return on the first line, I saw his long shadow cast across my page. I turned to see him standing in the doorway of his office, cane in hand. Artie's starchy shirt, suspendered pinstripes, brown leather oxfords, and spectacles made him look more like an accountant than a private investigator, but looks were deceiving and I knew Artie was the one man with whom I could, and had, entrust my life.

"Santana, got a minute? Like to introduce you to a client," Artie gestured with his head, adjusting the wire rims that had slipped down his nose. No doubt he'd turned the fan down so the client wouldn't have to shout confidential information, but he was now paying the price. I could see the tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip from across the room. The neck noose and jacket may have been making a professional impression on the client, but they weren't helping Artie's cool any. Reading my mind regarding an escape plan, he ambled over to my desk and lowering his voice, "An _important_ client."

I leaned back in my chair glancing at the slightly ajar door of Artie's office. "What's the story? Another payroll gone missing? Political hack looking for mud to sling? Spoiled blue bloods can't find Great Aunt Gertrude's last will and testimony?" Times were tough in Metropolis, and although I knew I should have been happy to have three squares and a roof over my head, the kind of nickel and dime work we'd been doing lately had me contemplating the green grass outside Metropolis' baked concrete jungle. If it weren't for Artie, I'd have given this town the kiss-off long ago.

Catching a glimpse of candy apple red shoes in Artie's office, I guessed again, "A missus done wrong by her mister?" I sighed rolling my eyes.

Artie leaned into me and replied, "Yeah, but it's no average mister does THIS missus wrong. Put that away and come in." Artie pointed with the handle of his cane at the bottle of whiskey on my desk. I moved to screw the cap back on, but he tapped my shoulder. "Second thought, give me a taste first." I handed the bottle to Artie, who wickedly wiped the lip of the bottle with his shirtsleeve and tossed back a drink.

I stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in my suit pants and shaking my head. "If you were gonna catch something from me, you'd have done it long ago." I pulled the rubber band from my hair, and with a mirror and brush from my top drawer, tamed my hair into a presentable form.

Following Artie back into his office, my eyes immediately found the candy apple red pumps and their owner standing pensively in front of the window. The pumps were attached to a pair of legs in hard-to-find, expensive-to-own, black silk seamed stockings. She wore a curve-hugging red dress that I could tell from here was not off the rack of any store. The dress skimmed the top of her calves and by the looks of the legs and the way she gave shape to the expensive dress, I'd guess she was a dancer who'd found her Mr. Moneybags. Her honey-blonde hair was loosely waved in the latest style of the movie starlets, perfectly in place under a red pill box hat made to match her dress.

Artie whispered so as not to startle her out of her reverie. "Mrs. Noir?" She seemed not to hear and remained motionless, perhaps lost in thought. Artie opened his mouth to speak again, but stopped when she turned her head to the side and placed a long thin black cigarette holder to her scarlet lips. Recognizing the cue, Artie stepped forward, pulling his chrome lighter from his pocket, and lit her cigarette. She turned slowly to face us, a curl of smoke snaking its way from her slightly parted lips.

With an almost imperceptible motion, she nodded appreciation for the light to Artie and turned her eyes to me. They were the color of a Metropolis sky on one of those rare days when you looked up from the grime of the city around you and admired the heavens above. The angel on my shoulder whispered that legs and lips like that were nothing but trouble. Feeling the electricity in those eyes, I knew trouble was just the beginning.

I tried my best to hide the fact that I recognized her immediately - Britt Noir. She was the wife of Blaine Noir, owner of the Soirées Noires nightclub, a regular stop for the see-and-be-seen set of Metropolis. Britt and Blaine had gone from a his-and-hers magic act, to owners of their own nightclub after a financial windfall of some sort washed them in green. Now Mrs. Noir commanded her own stage every night singing and dancing, with an occasional appearance from Blaine. On the surface, they had it made, but the fact that she was here in our office on a night like this said different.

"Mrs. Noir," Artie started again, "this is my associate, Santana Lopez." I extended a hand to her and she cocked her head to the side, no doubt taking stock of my suit.

"Please, call me Britt, or if you must, Mrs. Anderson. Noir is just a stage name." Despite the familiarity her words suggested, Britt Anderson's porcelain face didn't soften a bit as she spoke the words. Her eyes remained on me as she addressed Artie. "And Mr. Abrams? The glass of water?"

"Pardon?" Artie said, momentarily confused. "The water! Right! Apologies. The water for your headache powder. I'll be right back." Artie excused himself to retrieve a glass from the small bar in the far corner of his office.

With her eyes never leaving mine for a second, she asked, "Is that even comfortable on a night like this?" She looked me up and down, indicating my suit and exhaling another curl of smoke. For the second time tonight, I felt like a Christmas ham and the fox eyeing me was making the already sweltering room warmer by the second.

"Actually, no, but I'd bet only an icebox would feel good on a night like this," I replied.

She smiled, conceding the point, and took a seat in front of Artie's desk. Artie returned and circled around his desk to place the glass of water in front of her. Again, an almost invisible nod of gratitude to Artie. I pushed an ashtray out of the way so I could stand, leaning against the corner of Artie's desk. Britt flicked the tip of her cigarette holder and a small cylinder of ash landed squarely in the tray. Retrieving a small blue and white packet of headache powder, she emptied the contents in the glass of water, swirled it twice and downed the mix in one swallow. Artie and I exchanged a glance.

"I'll fill Santana in on the case a little later. But I wanted you to meet her before she shows up to the club. She'll be dressed appropriately, of course." I could hear the smile in Artie's voice, but since there was a client present I let the remark slide.

"I'd appreciate keeping this whole affair as quiet as possible," Mrs. Anderson said, looking back and forth between Artie and me.

"_Private_ investigations, Mrs. Noir. I mean, Anderson, Mrs. Anderson. Private is what the door says and that's what we do– _private_ investigations. You have nothing to worry about. You're in the best hands in the biz." Artie stood and walked around to stand next to me in front of his desk. "You just leave it to us and we'll take care of everything." I nodded in unison with Artie; this kind of dog and pony show was exactly what I'd wanted to avoid tonight but here I was standing on my hind legs, tongue wagging.

"I certainly hope so," Mrs. Anderson said, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray and standing to leave. "Mr. Abrams, would you mind calling me a cab?"

"Sure thing, the black and whites are just around the corner. They should be here in two shakes," Artie said as he picked up the receiver of the phone and spun the number to the taxi company out on the rotary dial. Having secured a taxi for Britt, he offered to walk her down to the street level. "If it'd make you feel better, I could ride with you and make sure you get in all right."

"Thank you, Mr. Abrams, but that won't be necessary. If you could just see me to my taxi?" Mrs. Anderson replied. "Mrs. Lopez, Friday then?" she asked, her eyes asking what her words didn't say so plainly.

"Tomorrow, that's right," I replied, intentionally not correcting her. "Good evening, Mrs. Anderson."

"Call me Britt. Good evening," she said, and her lips twitched up in what I could find myself mistaking as a smile.

The click of heels grew faint as Mrs. Anderson and Artie walked down the hall to the elevator. I lit a smoke and leaned against the windowsill. The streets were empty this time of night. The nearest bars were blocks away, a fact I often lamented. The only sound was the bellowing of the harbor foghorn a few blocks away. As I took another drag on my cigarette, the flash of a match being struck in the alley across the street caught my attention. The flame lit up the stranger's pale face like a bonfire; the orange tip flaring as Britt's taxi pulled to a stop in front of our building. I looked down to see Artie close the door and tap on the roof of the taxi. The cigarette flared orange again and was tossed to the ground.

Artie returned after kicking the fans in the outer room and his office into high gear. Pulling his tie completely off, he sat down in the chair Britt had just occupied.

"What's the lowdown?" I said, perching on the edge of the desk.

Artie pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyeglasses as he spoke. "She claims her old man has been getting death threats in the form of scribbled notes down at the club. She paid them no attention until they got one at their apartment. _Mr._ Anderson doesn't seem to think there's a problem, but _Mrs._ Anderson would like us to get to the bottom of this, sooner rather than later."

"So I take her at the club and you watch the husband?"

"Yeah, I figured you'd stand out less than me in her changing room- the cane, you know." We both chuckled. "Let's dish the rest over breakfast. I'm ready to get out of here." Artie stood, walking behind his desk, and starting to pack up his briefcase.

Standing over my typewriter, I glanced at the one line of notes I'd managed to type. I hit the '.' and slapped the return lever. Content I'd accomplished something, I sorted the papers in my briefcase.

"You don't have any objections to shadowing Mrs. Anderson, do you?" Artie said, waiting for me next to the door. "I figured she was… your type..."

I looked up from my briefcase, placing the last of the papers neatly inside. "She's married, Artie." Artie held the door open for me and I stepped outside, pausing as he locked the door behind us. "And she's asked us to protect her and her husband from harm."

Turning from the door, Artie smiled slyly. "Yeah, it's complicated. I thought that's the only way you liked your relationships - complicated."

I made the shape of a gun with my thumb and index finger and fired into Artie's chest. We both laughed. "If that's what you say about me to my face, I'd love to hear what you say behind my back."

"Walk ahead of me and I'll think of something," Artie replied.

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**A/N: This story has been soooo much fun to write. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you NEMO for the brilliant idea and encouragement. Thanks also to Blueashke for being SooperBeta. As always, Nayshen is forced to read it first, thank you lovelies- especially my Vampie (Mariel) and Mon Ange (Maga). Snixx? What up?  
**

**And Foss- not possible without you.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**July 1947**

**[Assassinat (take 1) | Miles Davis]**

Friday afternoon arrived, and with it the threat of a rare tropical storm approaching Metropolis. If you believed everything the weatherman said, and you were a chump if you did, a storm the likes of which Metropolis hadn't seen in decades was simmering in the Atlantic waiting to make her move. It always struck me as ironic that they named tropical storms after women. Sure, women could cause a lot of mayhem, but in my experience, it was the kind that only showed on the inside. The kind of damage that only an expert eye could uncover. When you wanted destruction the likes of a hurricane, chaos everywhere the untrained eye could see, that took a man's hand. I didn't know what stormy weather lay ahead of us any better than the weatherman, but for right now I was enjoying the sudden drop in heat and humidity - the calm before the storm.

Normally, we'd have concocted a cover story for me: reporter, new assistant to Mrs. Anderson, chorus girl. But I had the feeling the situation was more complicated than Mrs. Anderson let on. I suggested we play it by ear and see which melodies stuck. Standing at the front entrance to the Soirées Noires nightclub, I caught a glimpse of myself reflected off the poster case announcing that the dulcet tones of Britt Noir could be heard here four nights a week. I was dressed in a crisp new navy suit, a regular Lois Lane. My shoulder pads were stiff and my hair, done up in reverse curls and a chignon, was equally so. I took the three steps down from the street level and glanced at my watch, rehearsals for the Noir's show started at 2. I was 10 minutes early, enough time to look around the joint and make myself familiar.

The street façade was deceptive; the club interior was two stories high, cavernous and air-conditioned cool. I walked in on the mezzanine, which was dominated by massive twin mahogany and brass bars, one on either side of the door. Lit up like Tiffany Christmas trees, the two walls of colored liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes promised no drink request was too outlandish and there were no legitimate excuses for walking around empty handed. The far end of the mezzanine led to staircases that gracefully spiraled up to the second story balcony, which was wall-to-wall with white tablecloth covered tables.

The mezzanine steps descended to the first floor, home to more dinner tables and a polished parquet dance floor big enough for the seventh infantry battalion to do formation drills. Impressive as the dance floor was, it was the red velvet curtain-draped stage that demanded your attention. The stage easily held a full orchestra and a grand piano, with room left over for dancing and singing beauties. A single gleaming silver microphone stood center stage, making it obvious there was one particular beauty to whom this shrine was meant to pay homage.

Union Station had nothing on the hustle and bustle of the Soirées Noires nightclub in the afternoon. Everywhere I looked, people were polishing the brass, shining the silver, and dusting off the crystal. I must have lost track of time because when I looked up, the orchestra and piano man were taking their seats on the stage. As if by some command I missed, the preparations halted and the staff of the Soirées Noires found a chair to sit in or a wall to lean against. Not wanting to offend, pulled up a chair next to the mezzanine railing.

Dressed in pleated brown pants, beige short-sleeved shirt, and matching plaid bowtie Blaine Anderson, AKA Blaine Noir, strode out onto the stage and began speaking quietly with the orchestra. Mr. Anderson's jet black curls were fighting being tamed straight, a rakish part left of center on his head. Even across the football field dance floor between where I sat and the stage, the gleam of Mr. Anderson's pearly whites beneath his pencil thin black moustache put your dentist's smile to shame. Gesturing with his back to the audience, the orchestra watched Mr. Anderson attentively.

There must have been a sound offstage because all heads, including Mr. Anderson's, turned to look stage left. He smiled and nodded; the house lights dimmed. From somewhere off the stage, a silky voice began.

**[Why Don't You Do Right? | Amy Irving]**

_You had plenty money, 1922_

The upright bass began its low toned walk and the orchestra snapped their fingers in time. Mrs. Anderson, in a white cap sleeved blouse and long blue high-waisted skirt, with a slit that showed off the loveliness of her legs, stepped slowly from behind the curtain. Mr. Anderson turned to watch, snapping his own fingers. If the Andersons' eyes met, neither of their faces showed it. The chill between the two was enough to make an Eskimo reach for his parka.

_You let other women make a fool of you  
Why don't you do right, like some other men do?  
Get out of here and get me some money too_

She took her time slinking to center stage. Even without her trademark sparkling red dress, stage make-up, and jewels, the effect was dramatic, and I found myself holding my breath watching her walk. The drummer's brushes swished across the top of the snare. The piano man's head bobbed and his fingers danced joyfully across the ivories. Mrs. Anderson shot him a wink before caressing the microphone with both her hand and her purring song.

_You're sittin' there and wonderin' what it's all about  
You ain't got no money, they will put you out  
Why don't you do right, like some other men do?  
Get out of here and get me some money too_

I tore my eyes away from the stage to look around. I hadn't been the only one lost in rapt attention, no one was looking anywhere but that stage. Doors on the far end of the mezzanine level opened and what looked like the kitchen staff lined up along the balcony to get an earful. When Mrs. Anderson took the stage, the rest of the world gladly ceased to exist. Content I wasn't neglecting my duties, I turned back to the stage.

_If you had prepared twenty years ago  
You wouldn't be a-wanderin' now from door to door  
Why don't you do right, like some other men do?  
Get out of here and get me some money too_

_Get out of here and get me some money too  
Why don't you do right?_  
_Like some other men do?_

The drummer silenced his cymbal and the place was dead quiet. No one moved, still caught up in the spell of Mrs. Anderson's song.

"Okay!" Mr. Anderson said clapping his hands twice, more to command attention than for applause. "Pretty good for a first time through. Britt, honey, watch your timing after that first line, there should be a pronounced… pause." Mr. Anderson smiled and winked as he spoke to his wife, not a drop of affection in his words.

This must have been par for the course, as Mrs. Anderson replied with smile that wouldn't fool a blind man from a mile away, "Thank you, dear. Perhaps you might watch bringing the band in too late as well?"

"Honey," Blaine said through his teeth, "let's not forget which of us is a trained musician and which of us gets to stand out front just because she looks better in a skirt."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short, dear," Mrs. Anderson replied as she walked back to her starting mark. "I've seen you in a skirt. You definitely have the better legs."

I smiled to myself. Mrs. Anderson, what a sharp tongue you have. The orchestra did their best to conceal their amusement, snickering like naughty school boys.

Blaine chuckled, shook his head, and clapped slowly, raising his hands high so every one could see. "Consider yourselves the first to see the comedy stylings of Noir and Noir. Burns and Allen beware. Enough tomfoolery. Places!"

The Noir Orchestra, Blaine, and Brittany ran through their set a few times more. Britt did a dance rehearsal with her half dozen chorus girls while Blaine tried out a new drummer who had me trying on a headache for size. Keeping my eyes on the stage, I took the opportunity to poll the masses on the state of the union- the Anderson union. The tableau that they'd just played out on stage said their marriage was rocky and neither of them was trying to keep it a secret. Asking around the joint confirmed my suspicions.

Checking the time, I ask the bartender the location of the nearest phone. He pointed me towards the hatcheck on the mezzanine. I dialed the office and checked in with Tina, our secretary. She told me Artie was in place ready to surveil the dinner crowd that would be arriving shortly. I'd get to enjoy the show from inside and make sure the Andersons left in one piece, while Artie feathered his nest in the car parked across the street. Normally getting the stakeout would have been a losing pony, but with the Metropolis heat turned down low, a ballgame on the radio, the moon and your flask full, I wasn't feeling so bad for Artie tonight.

**II**

Compared to the fireworks of rehearsal, the two stage shows that night were something of a letdown. Although the Andersons hadn't been shy about sharing the frigid climes of their marriage during rehearsal, in front of an audience, they were all smiles. If I hadn't watched the rehearsal earlier, I'd have bet a month's rent they were the epitome of wedded bliss. I hadn't given either one of them enough credit for their acting ability. They were the perfect couple: from their matching outfits, Mrs. Anderson's infamous red gowns and Mr. Anderson's trademark red-rimmed glasses; down to the slow waltz they did off the stage to a standing ovation at the end of the evening.

I ordered a scotch when the last call bell tolled, figuring after a bone-dry evening of surveillance, all that was left was to see Mrs. Anderson home safely, and that didn't require steady hands. Downing my drink in two gulps, I headed backstage to begin my home escort services for the night. I tapped the shoulder of the first person I saw and he pointed me towards her dressing room. I knocked, noting Mr. Anderson's dressing room was right next door, probably adjoining.

"Who is it?" Mrs. Anderson called from within.

"It's me, Mrs. Anderson, Santana Lopez. Are you dressed? May I come in?"

"Santana, come on in. Have a seat," she said, unlocking the door and gesturing to an ivory chaise lounge in the center of the room. "And please, call me Britt," Mrs. Anderson chided. I stepped in and closed the door behind me, turning to see Mrs. Anderson seated in a plush white robe at a dressing table. "I wondered if you actually showed," Mrs. Anderson said, looking at me in the mirror as she removed her stage make-up. "I was prepared to call Mr. Abrams tomorrow and tell him you stood me up." She smiled as she turned to face me and looked me up and down as she'd done at the office the night before. "You clean up very nicely, Santana."

"You say that like you've seen me dirty," I replied, taking a quick inventory of the nearly completely white dressing room. "Speaking of which, you must pay a fortune to keep this place clean. I feel like I should've left my shoes outside."

"No, it's all right," Mrs. Anderson smiled. "The red gowns were Blaine's idea. He said they'd make us more memorable. Between the red clothes and the noise, this is my little sanctuary. My senses aren't assaulted here," Mrs. Anderson said, gesturing at the room with her hand. "And I meant that you look good in your suits, men's or women's. That's a talent." Mrs. Anderson turned and continued her make-up removal.

"Thanks. And for your peace of mind, I've been enjoying your humble little establishment since rehearsal this afternoon. Artie's been casing the place from outside since before the first show."

"Very professional."

"That's the impression we're trying to make, Mrs. Anderson," I said. "You asked us to be discreet and voilá. Although it would be easier by a mile if Mr. Anderson was in on it."

"No!" Mrs. Anderson said, turning away from her mirror towards me, looking distressed. "Blaine would say I was wasting money. He's convinced the threatening letters are some gag."

"But you think they're serious?"

"I do. In fact I haven't slept a decent night since we started getting the letters." She turned to face the mirror again and spoke to my reflection. She stroked a brush through her gold-colored hair. "Would you be a dear and mix me a headache powder from the medicine cabinet?" she said pointing with her brush to the small sink and mirror next to the door.

I opened the cabinet and looked for the familiar blue and white packets. "Say, Mrs. Anderson, where are you from originally?" I asked looking back over my shoulder at her reflection in the mirror. "Most people from this part of the country use aspirin tablets instead of powder."

"A regular Sherlock Holmes. Where do you think I'm from? Sleuth that out," she chuckled. The sly grin reflected in the mirror was setting off warning bells. A smile like that belongs to a woman that would just as soon break your heart as look at you, familiar territory.

"Well, I would have said points continental," I started, "but now I'm thinking Southern." I took one last glance through the cabinet and was about to tell her she was out of headache powders when I noticed her purse balanced on the corner of the sink, unclasped. It was the same one she'd had with her in the office last night and I could see the tip of a blue and white foil packet, her headache powder, on one side.

"Oh, you're good. Very good. Can you keep a secret? Promise not to tell?" she asked.

I tugged at the tip of the packet in her purse and when it didn't budge I snuck my hand in. Instead of the hairbrush, compact or tube of lipstick one might expect to find in a gal's purse, I felt the cold barrel of a revolver. Looking over my shoulder, she didn't seem to have seen me, so I recovered quickly. "Can I keep a secret? Sure, sure, I never tell unless someone asks," I said, pulling out the headache powder and closing the purse.

"You're a funny one Santana. Blaine likes to pretend we're from the big city, but really, I grew up in a small town outside of Phoenix. Lived there until I was 20 years old. Then I ran away to Metropolis. That's how I met Blaine. Surprised?" she said looking at me in the mirror.

"Surprised? No," I said, pouring the contents of the packet into a small amount of water and swirling it before placing it on her dressing table. "It takes a lot more to surprise me." That was half true; it did take a lot to surprise me, but finding a revolver in Mrs. Anderson's purse had certainly done the trick. "So things turned sour in Arizona did they?"

"There was a man in Arizona," Mrs. Anderson said, pausing to drink her headache concoction. "That's why I'm in Metropolis."

I glanced down at my watch.

"Am I boring you, Santana or are you afraid of turning into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight?" Mrs. Anderson jabbed. She stood and walked behind the shoulder-high folding screen in the rear corner of the room. She draped her robe over the top of the screen.

"A pumpkin, Mrs. Anderson? I've been called far worse after midnight." As Mrs. Anderson got dressed, I asked, "Mind if I smoke?"

"Would you step outside please? Like you said, it costs a fortune to keep it clean, even I don't smoke in here," she replied, stepping out from behind the screen dressed in a figure-hugging silk dress with a floral print. "You like?"

"Might be a shorter list to tell you what you don't look good in, Mrs. Anderson," I said as I stepped outside her dressing room and lit up a cigarette. Finding the gun in Mrs. Anderson's purse changed my thinking on this whole caper. Maybe she wasn't the little missus cowering in a corner after all. She could certainly duke it out word for word with Mr. Anderson, maybe she had plans to do the same with our mysterious penpal. A client afraid for her life and packing heat was not a good combination. Unpredictable was putting it mildly.

**III**

With the Andersons safely back home in their apartment, Artie and I stopped by the office before heading home ourselves. We parked the car and for once, took the elevator up to the sixth floor landing of our office. As we'd been in the car on the drive from the Anderson's, we were quiet in the elevator.

"So what's on your mind beside your pretty little curls, Santana?" Artie teased, flicking one of my ringlets with a finger.

"Hey! Quit it! I'm "dressed appropriately" or don't you remember saying that yesterday?"

"You know I was kidding. I'm just teasing because I haven't seen you all dolled up in a good long while. I like it."

"Lay off it, Artie," I said stepping out of the elevator on our floor. I was in no mood to be teased. Finding that gun in Mrs. Anderson's bag had me feeling like I didn't know what was going on and I didn't like it when I didn't know what was going on.

"Don't be mad, let's kiss and make up?" Artie said, puckering his lips like a guppy you won at the fair.

"Why don't you go kiss a light socket, hot lips?" I said unlocking the office door and heading towards my office.

We both put away our notepads and packed to leave for the night. From my office I called out, "Say Artie, what do you know about Mrs. Anderson?"

"What do you mean? Married to Blaine Anderson, resident of the West side. Used to get cut in half by her husband for a living. Get it? Magician's assistant? Get it?" Artie laughed.

"Corny, Artie, corny. No, I mean, like where is she from? What do her parents do? Does she have brothers or sisters? Or Blaine for that matter what do we know about him except that he used to saw his wife in two for a living?"

"Oh, Santana! I'm so glad you asked. Let me just sit down here at my magic typewriter and type 'Britt and Blaine Anderson'. My little invisible minions will run out and get the lowdown in seconds and get back to me," he threw his hands up, exasperated. "Geez, Lopez, it's the 20th century not the 30th."

I aimed a rubber band from my collection squarely at his forehead. If I'd been a better shot, Artie would've been sporting a nice red raised reminder about being snarky.

"Tomorrow, can we get Tina to work her magic?" I asked, closing my office door behind me.

"She's on the case. Probably has a copy of their birth certificates by now. Give her another day and I'll bet you 3 to 1 we'll know how many cavities they have. I think we've got time, next to nothing happened today. I'm starting to think Mr. Anderson is right and the letters are a hoax. We just need to find the line between reassuring Mrs. Anderson and taking her money for no good reason."

When I didn't reply, Artie asked, "Why, Lopez? What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking there's more to this than we think. Mrs. Anderson's a charmer, she could cash a $7 bill at a bank. I just wanna know the whole story. Before it's too late."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for the positive feedback and suggestions! I love to hear your thoughts! **

**As always, thanks to Nayshen, my beta Blueashke, my Vampie, and Snixx! Big s'up to NEMO who gifted me this idea to start.  
**

**And Foss ;)  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**July 1947**

**[Sur L'Autoroute | Miles Davis]**

Saturday morning came and with it a feeling that I needed to apologize to the weatherman. Seems he was right, for once. We were going to meet a wild young lady by the name of Adrianne. She was a tropical storm cum hurricane gathering steam off the coast and rumor had it she couldn't wait for the debutante cotillion in the spring. She decided to throw a coming out party of her own in Metropolis, today. The threat of the Metropolis harbor expanding by a few dozen miles had two diametrically opposed responses from the citizens of Metropolis. Some were battening the hatches and stocking up on sterno, powdered milk, and Spam. The other half was hoarding rum, gin, and scotch. I knew which group I was in.

Stepping into the front office, I waved hello to Tina as best I could with two brown bags in my hands. She was busy on the phone and winked back at me, above a trademark toothy smile. I cocked my head in the direction of Artie's office with a questioning look. Tucking the phone between her shoulder and her ear, Tina held up both hands and pointed at the clock. Artie wouldn't be in until 10. Fine, I had some time to think- a luxury.

I pulled my door halfway closed, put my packages down, and since I wasn't dressed "appropriately" for the nightclub yet, I took advantage of my slacks and kicked my brown and white spectators up on the edge of my desk. I hoped occupying my hands with mundane things like rolling paper and tobacco might yield some clever thoughts. My mind wandered quite a bit while my hands made busy refilling my cigarette case. In the end I had a baker's dozen of newly rolled cigarettes, but not even two thoughts to rub together. I tapped lucky cigarette number thirteen on my desk, lit it, and inhaled.

"Morning, San!" Tina said poking her head in my door. She was dressed in a brown and white plaid dress with a white collar and white gathered waist. "May I come in? Want some coffee?"

"Morning, Tina. My door's always open for you, even when it's not." I stood, swept the stray tobacco shreds into the wastebasket, and opened one of the paper bags on my desk. "Care to make it more interesting?" I held up two bottles of whiskey.

"I thought that might be your hurricane survival kit. I heard you clinking on the way in here," Tina smirked, setting the two mugs down on my desk.

"What's the point of surviving a world-ending storm if all the booze is gone?" I said, unscrewing the top of the bottle and pouring some in both mugs.

"Hey! Hey! Don't be stingy!" Tina teased. I added a little more and winked at her. Tina started working for us a few months after we opened the agency. We'd struck it rich finding Tina. Not only was she more efficient than a Harvard accountant, she had a winning personality, a way with clients, and she could find out more with a spin of the rotary phone than most private eyes could in a week of pounding shoe leather. Checking in with Tina meant we always knew the latest and more importantly, Artie and I always knew the other was safe.

She sat on the corner of my desk, took a sip of her coffee, and gave me a 'ok' sign with her fingers as she continued to drink.

"Knock! Knock!" Artie said stepping into my office. "Looks like I got here just in time for smokes and joe. Morning, Tina."

"Morning, Artie," Tina replied.

"Am I chopped liver over here? Do I get a 'morning'? This is my office isn't it?" I said noticing the sideways glance between the two of them.

"Morning, San," Artie said, sitting down in the chair directly in front of Tina. The two exchanged another smile.

"I'll…bring you a coffee," Tina said as she stood up and walked towards the door.

"Skip the coffee. Could you bring me the Pepto?" Artie called. He rubbed his stomach and looked at me.

"Tom's Diner last night on stakeout? You had the special, didn't you?" I chuckled recognizing the pained look on Artie's face. Despite knowing the dangers of Tom's meatball sandwich, Artie took the plunge and paid the price every time.

"I'm not feeling so special now," Artie replied. Tina returned, sitting the distinctive glass Silex coffee pot down on its stand. She then reached into the deep pockets of her dress, handing Artie a spoon and a bottle of the pink stuff. "Thanks." Artie went to the sink to take the medication.

"I can fill you in on the Anderson case," Tina said sitting down.

"Let's hear it. He'll catch up in a minute." I gestured towards Artie.

"Well," Tina began, "who do you want first, Mrs. or Mr. Anderson?"

"Dealer's choice," I replied.

"Change of pace, Mr. Anderson first then. Blaine Anderson goes by the stage name of Blaine Noir. Born and raised in San Francisco." Tina flipped through her yellow steno pad as she read. "Went to an all boy's prep school, then university in Michigan. Somewhere along the way he picked up magic and started an act with his cousin, Sebastian Anderson. Met Brittany Pierce and they came to Metropolis hoping to make it big."

"Apparently they did," Artie said.

"How long have they been married?" I asked. The brand of contempt I'd seen at rehearsals was usually the result of years of biting your tongue followed by a few years of eyeing your better half's neck.

"Two years this past June," said Tina.

The Andersons were learning quick. "And what about Mrs. Anderson?" I asked, standing to look out the window as Metropolis citizens ran to and fro with their hurricane preparations. I wondered if I should have taken the storm more seriously and bought more booze.

"Mrs. Anderson was born in California as well, but grew up in Scottsdale, outside of Phoenix. As far as I can tell she lived there right up until she met Blaine three years ago. They toured together as the "Noirs" for their magic act for a year before they were officially married."

"All this is from a few hours on the phone with the secretaries of Metropolis?" Artie asked.

"The secretaries, hairdressers, doormen, and accountants of Metropolis, Ann Arbor, Phoenix, and San Fran, Artie," Tina replied smiling. It was always Tina's assertion that the "invisible" people knew everything if you just asked them the right questions.

"Makes you worry what secrets Tina could tell, huh, Artie? You better make sure she gets that Christmas bonus," I said with a flick of my cigarette and a wink to Tina. "So life was lukewarm until he met she and then…" I said, hoping Tina had something that might help explain what I'd seen yesterday; the verbal joust or the revolver, take your pick.

"Four of them Britt, Blaine, Cousin Sebastian, and Britt's schoolyard chum, Sugar Motta, were 'Magie Noir'. Sugar and Sebastian were doubles for the Andersons in the act. From what I hear, nothing very special about the tricks themselves. The draw was that they put on like they were fresh from Paris-only spoke in French onstage."

"There's high demand for French magic acts in Metropolis?" I asked, standing to top off my drink with coffee instead of the whiskey I would have preferred were there not judgmental eyes present.

"Not by a longshot. They were on the verge of financial ruin until-"

"The windfall?" Artie prompted.

"The windfall," I repeated. "Any clues what that was?"

"Out of the blue, Mr. Anderson pays off all their bills, buys their apartment and the Soirées Noires. Since then, never a day late or a dime short to the milkman," Tina shrugged.

Artie whistled. "That's a nice pile of dough pays all that off at once. Apartment, uptown, that's gotta be worth at least $4000. See there, San? Someone already found Great Aunt Gertrude's will."

"At least," I agreed. "No clues at all where that kind of money came from?" I asked again.

Tina shook her head, "None, yet."

"Where are Sebastian and Sugar now? They get dumped along with the magic act? _Au revoir_ as they say in gay Paris?" I said, taking a long drag off my cigarette and eyeing the time.

"Sebastian and Sugar, along with most of the stage crew from the old act, work for the club," Tina answered, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Hmm, I don't remember seeing any fellas with a family resemblance," I replied.

"Really?" Artie nudged Tina with an elbow and asked, "Say San, how many fellas were there in the Noir Orchestra?"

"The Orchestra? I'd say…ten? Is that about right?"

Artie winked at Tina, "Sure. Sure. Sounds good. How many chorus girls in the revue?"

"Six," I answered without pause.

Artie sniggered. "You can keep track of the exact number of girls but not the fellas, huh?"

"Well, the fellas were sitting down," I said trying to conceal a smile, knowing what Artie was getting at.

"The fellas were sitting down? What's that got to do with it?" Tina asked, seeing Artie chuckle.

"San, keeps track of the gams," Artie said. "No effort at all- steel trap," Artie said tapping his temple with his finger.

"Observe the legs and divide by two. Easy," I chuckled along with Artie.

There was a knock on the outside office door and Tina excused herself to answer it. Artie looked at me and squinted.

"Something still bothering you about this case, huh? What's on your mind, San?" he asked.

"Yeah, Artie. I-," I started to tell him about the rehearsal bickering and the thing that weighed heaviest on my mind, the piece in Mrs. Anderson's purse, when Tina knocked lightly before pushing the door open.

"New client, says the police won't help her," Tina said, sticking her head in the doorway of my office.

"Is she young and beautiful?" Artie asked.

"I don't know, I didn't ask her," Tina said, giving an exasperated sigh and walking back to the front office.

"I better go take care of this one. You've got enough beauties on your hands…six chorus girls, huh?" Artie said shaking his head as he left to greet the client.

I wasn't sure exactly what I had on my hands yet, but it was definitely troubling my mind. The angel on my shoulder was squawking up her own storm about the pretty dame with the legs, the lips, and the loaded gun. I wanted this case over sooner rather than later.

* * *

**II**

After discussing the new client with Artie and deciphering some of my notes for Tina, I took a walk to pick up some lunch for the three of us. What began with the idea of a short walk, fetching lunch, and a smoke, ended blocks away and 2 cigarettes shy of finishing the dozen I'd rolled this morning. Signs on restaurants and bars announced they were closing up shop early in Hurricane Adrianne's honor, talk about a killjoy. I liked the cool spring temperatures she'd sent ahead of her arrival, but frankly, Adrianne was beginning to sound more and more like the girl you didn't want to sit next to at the dinner party. There was an odd feeling in the air, the kind that made your skin itch, your neck hairs stand on edge, and your nerves jump for no particular reason you could put your thumb on. The tropical storm was on her way. Storms had a tendency to stir up things from the bottom of the ocean. Dark things, things sometimes better left where they were. I flipped a matchbook between my fingers; the trademark red and black colors of the Soirées Noires. I wondered what dark things we'd see tonight.

I found myself at a grocer's a few blocks from the Soirées Noires, elbowing my way past the housewives carrying shopping bags filled to bursting with toilet paper, milk, and bread. I never understood what it was about a snowstorm or a hurricane that made that particular combination of groceries so desirable; my carnivore instincts needed more satisfaction than milk toast could offer. I headed to the deli counter and splurged on some liverwurst for our lunch. I claimed the last bag of Marvel bread from a woman foaming at the mouth as she stomped way with just three loaves in her cart. The canned food aisle was a wasteland, but I managed to pick up the last two tins of pork and beans from a bottom shelf figuring it couldn't hurt. Adding a bar of Ivory soap and some toothpaste, I headed for the clerk. Even with the tins going for twice their normal price, highway robbery in my mind, the total came to $2.85 so I added some pre-rolled cigarettes- $3 even.

The skies of Metropolis were looking even more sour when I left the grocer's; grey ragged-edged clouds replacing the fluffy cottonball white ones that always seemed out of place in the Metropolis sky. It was 1:30 in the afternoon, but you'd have had an easy time convincing me it was 1:30AM. The pleasant breeze that had been trying since last night to make it to wind status finally claimed its title. I buttoned my collar up and gave thanks for my slacks, as I saw the appropriately dressed women fighting to keep their hemlines decent in the gusty winds that swept down concrete canyons of Metropolis. I turned the corner in time to see the marquee being changed on the Soirées Noires- "Hurricane Party- live music, food, dancing and hurricane cocktails". Case or no case, it seemed like the Soirées Noires was the place to be tonight.

* * *

**III**

The winds of Adrianne were once again making their presence felt, as the black and white cab pulled up behind a cream-colored Buick Roadmaster coupe, Artie's pride and joy. The whitewalls looked as though they'd never known the insult of a speck of dust or dirt. And from the dark hardtop to the cream colored chassis to the plentiful chrome accents, the car gleamed like it was still on the showroom floor. Whichever woman wanted in Artie's life was going to have to accept that she may come in second to a three speed manual, eight cylinder inline engine, four wheeled beauty Artie secretly called Celine.

I tapped twice on the window, waiting for Artie to unlock the door, as he leaned over to look through the passenger's side window. Looking back over my shoulder at the front door of the nightclub, I ran my hands down the fitted bodice, the pinched waist and flared petticoat of the white cocktail dress. Although I'd felt fine at rehearsal yesterday, by the time the dinner crowd had rolled in, my Lois Lane get up felt very underdone. Tina had picked this out for me special, and although I'd deny doing it to my dying day, I couldn't help but give a small turn that fanned the petticoat around me like I'd seen the girls on the newsreels do. Something about a dress like that made a twirl compulsory, who was I to fight it? Turning back to the car, I was surprised to see Artie standing next to me, holding the car door open.

Artie whistled. "Santana, you look…"

"Appropriate?" I said smiling and punching him squarely in the chest as I tried my best to remember the graceful way to enter a car in a cocktail dress. I placed my purse on the red leather bench seat and before I could slide all the way in, Artie whistled again.

"Sweet Jesus, what a set you have!"

"You better be talking about my legs, Artie," I said looking up at him, laughing, and adjusting my bustier.

"A hot blooded American fella can't help but…" Artie started with the corn pone routine.

"Can it, Artie. Get in before the wind messes up my hair and I have to start again." I knew Artie was playing up to me but I didn't mind. I turned the rear view mirror to me as Artie climbed back into the car. I shook my head in wonder looking at my darkened and seemingly miles longer eyelashes, Tina had done amazing things with a damp brush and a little cake of black powder. The bright red lipstick was so beautifully applied it seemed a shame that most of it would end up marring the glass of a whiskey tumbler as soon as I had the chance.

"So far, nothing unusual. Hurricane party has earned them a bigger crowd than last night for sure," Artie said. He looked annoyed as he adjusted the rear view mirror away from me to once again reflect his rear window.

"What about the Andersons? Both inside?" I asked, looking across the street at the marquee and the first drops of rain that began to fall.

"Mrs. Anderson didn't leave after rehearsal this afternoon. Mr. Anderson ran home about 45 minutes ago. I'll head there next," Artie said, turning the key and bringing Celine to life.

"Drop me off in front?" I asked, cringing at the rain on the windshield.

"Sure, you'll check in with Tina for me? There's a phone booth just around the corner from the Anderson's apartment, I'll call at the top of the hour, you at the bottom, okay?"

I nodded and glanced at the time on the dashboard clock, 8:45, as Artie pulled around to the black and red awning below the billowing marquee of the Soirées Noires.

"There's a hurricane coming, Artie, so don't be heroic. Head back home if it gets bad, okay?" I said kissing him lightly on the cheek as I reached for the door.

"Are you kidding? The moment debris starts flying I'm taking this baby home," Artie said stroking the dashboard.

"Celine?" I smirked. Artie mimicked a gun with his thumb and forefinger and aimed at me. Levity hit the floor like a lead balloon as I was reminded why I was standing on the curb in a cocktail dress waiting for a hurricane to come. Once again, before I could act, Artie was standing outside holding the door for me. "Stay safe, Art?" I said, wiping off the lipstick I'd left on his cheek.

"You too, San," Artie saluted playfully as he maneuvered with his cane back around the car and behind the wheel again. He waved as he turned the car around in the street to head towards the Anderson's apartment.

The doorman had decided to perform his duties from inside the club this evening. As I reached the bottom step descending to the club, the door opened and the doorman extended a hand as he greeted me. Feeling the chill of the air conditioner on my bare shoulders, I elected to keep my wrap. I surveyed the crowd as I walked to the phone to check in. Artie's estimation of the crowd was right. It seemed I was in good company with the half of Metropolis that believed high spirits were essential to surviving a hurricane. The dance floor had been pared down to less than half its usual size to allow more tables on the main floor before the stage. The mezzanine and second floor that usually only accommodated a single row of tables next to the railing overlooking the stage was now two rows deep. After quickly checking in for both of us with Tina, I waited for a hostess to show me to a table. To my great fortune, I was seated at a table on the mezzanine within shouting distance from the bar. Not that I would ever shout for a drink, that would be unladylike, I'd be much more inclined to throw something at the bartender first.

"Care for a hurricane cocktail tonight?" asked a waitress, who suddenly appeared at my side dressed in a white tuxedo shirt, red vest and red and black bowtie.

"I hate to be naïve, but what's in it?"

"Oh! It's all the rage in New Orleans- and they know a thing a two about hurricanes," she said enthusiastically. "It's dark rum, light rum, passion fruit juice, and a touch of lime juice. First one's on the house," she smiled.

"Who can refuse an offer like that?" I replied.

"No one yet, we can barely keep up," she said pointing at a crate of limes being stacked next to the bar. The wait staff seemed unusually busy and the twin bars on either side of the mezzanine level were double staffed with two bartenders each.

I turned towards the stage as the waitress walked away to get my drink. The houselights dimmed indicating the show was about to start. I was ready to count how many men there were in the Noir Orchestra when I noticed they were dressed in cowboy shirts instead of black dinner jackets. The waitress returned and I asked, "What's with the outfits tonight?"

"Oh, that's Tex Williams and his band," she replied setting my pink hurricane cocktail down in front of me. "They couldn't get out of town on account of the storm so they offered to open tonight." My face must have been a blank because she nudged me with her elbow and continued. "You know their song, it's been on the Hit Parade." I shook my head. "Oh, you know it, "Smoke! Smoke! Smoke! That cigarette!"" she sang tunelessly, making it evident why she was part of the waitstaff and not the revue.

As if on cue, the double bass began to sound and the man I assumed was Tex Williams stepped to the microphone.

**[Smoke! Smoke! Smoke! | Tex Williams]**

_Now I'm a feller with a heart of gold  
And the ways of a gentleman I've been told  
The kind of guy that wouldn't even harm a flea _  
_But if me and a certain character met  
The guy that invented the cigarette  
I'd murder that son-of-a-gun in the first degree_  
_It ain't cuz I don't smoke myself  
And I don't reckon that it'll harm your health  
Smoked all my life and I ain't dead yet_  
_But nicotine slaves are all the same  
At a pettin' party or a poker game  
Everything gotta stop while they have a cigarette_  
_Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette  
Puff, puff, puff and if you smoke yourself to death  
Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate  
That you hate to make him wait  
But you just gotta have another cigarette_

The music wasn't much to my taste, but I took the suggestion and lit up a cigarette as I sipped my cocktail and let my eyes wander around the club for signs of Mrs. Anderson or perhaps Sebastian Anderson. After a few minutes it was time to check in with Tina again. My how time flew when you were having rum.

The club doors opened and a slim man dressed in an overcoat and a dark colored fedora appeared to be blown in with a gust of wind that caused half the club to shiver. "I'll take your coat and hat, Mr. Anderson," the doorman said, reaching for the garments. The man was soaked head to toe, but instead of removing his coat and hat, he seemed to pull them on tighter as he waved off the doorman and headed in my direction. As he walked and shook hands with patrons rising to greet him, I could see the trademark red glasses and thousand watt smile of Blaine Anderson. Something on the main floor caught his eye and he paused stepping closer to the mezzanine railing only a few feet away from my table. Looking on the dance floor, I spotted Mrs. Anderson in her red sequined gown, her waved blonde hair glowing from the reflected stage lights. Even without the ample slits of her gown making a show of her infamous legs, her dancer training was evident in the way she glided amongst the guests, shaking hands. With the only smile in the room that outshone Mr. Anderson's, I wondered if even the Pepsodent girl could compete. I turned back to Mr. Anderson, who stood motionless. If I wasn't mistaken the look on his face was wistful, the contempt I'd seen the day before nowhere in sight. Whatever state of reverie he was in ended abruptly and he turned back in my direction heading for the stairs leading down to the stage below.

I stood extending a hand as he approached and began, "Mr. Anderson, please to meet-"

He grasped my hand limply and replied, "Enjoy the show," as he, in his wet overcoat, brushed past me without missing a step. A lesser ego might have taken offense, but somewhere inside I was glad to have a bit of justification for my distaste for the man. Since the first words out of his mouth yesterday at rehearsal, I'd felt an instant dislike for him. Sure, I didn't know anything about their marriage and it was obvious Mrs. Anderson gave as good as she got, but something about the way he spoke to her struck me the wrong way and I was having trouble rooting for the home team with all my heart. I saw Mr. Anderson pause once more, before disappearing down the stairs.

The crowd applauded as the Tex Miller song ended and a young man dressed in the Noir Orchestra black dinner jacket complete with red vest and bowtie approached the silver microphone centerstage applauding. "Tex Miller, everyone! Coming to the stage, the Blaine Noir Orchestra featuring Britt Noir! We have a special treat for you tonight so order another cocktail and get settled in quick!" The Noir Orchestra filed on stage as the house lights were raised momentarily to make the delivery of pink cocktails and cigarettes easier for the waiters and cigarette girls.

I caught the attention of a waiter and ordered a whiskey sour. I could play the pretty drink game, but bourbon was feeling more my poison of choice tonight. I pulled a cigarette from the case in my purse and before I could put it to my lips, two waiters offered lighters. I'd underestimated the effect of a cocktail dress and artfully applied make-up, maybe it was worth the plucking, preening, and headache after all. Accepting a light from one of the waiters, I smiled and thanked them both. After a few more minutes, the house lights began to dim again.

Mr. Anderson took the stage and bowed towards the audience before turning back to the orchestra. After a moment, the spotlight followed the red glittering vision of Mrs. Anderson as she walked towards center stage. As she passed Mr. Anderson she seemed to hesitate and I saw Mr. Anderson place a hand on her arm and speak into her ear. Still smiling at the audience, I could make out her lips moving as she took a step back, freeing her arm from his grip. I ignored the arrival of my drink and leaned forward trying to translate what had just happened. Mrs. Anderson arrived at her gleaming microphone and spoke.

"Good evening, Metropolis! I'm glad the storm has blown you our way. I hope we can keep you amused until the Ark arrives," she said with a chuckle and smile that didn't betray any other emotions she might be feeling. Mr. Anderson tipped his head slightly and raised his hands to the orchestra. As his hands fell, the piano and strings began and after a beat, Mrs. Anderson joined.

**[Stormy Weather | sung as in version by Sarah Vaughan Introduction to Sarah Vaughan]**  
_I don't know why, I don't know why_  
_There's no sun up in the sky  
Stormy weather _  
_Since my man and I ain't together  
Keeps on raining all the time, all the time_

The song was familiar to everyone in the room, a song from a movie a few years ago, but the change in the tempo and the sincere heartbreak in Mrs. Anderson's voice made most people forget their drinks, smokes, and dates, all listening mouths agape.

_Life is bare_  
_Gloom and misery everywhere  
Stormy weather _  
_Since my man and I ain't together  
Keeps on raining all the time_

_I can't go on_  
_Everything I have is gone  
Stormy weather_  
_Since my man and I ain't together  
Keeps on raining all the time_  
_It's raining, raining all the time_  
_It's raining, it's raining_  
_It rains all day and it rains all night_  
_It just rains all the time_

Without even a pause, Mrs. Anderson stepped back from the microphone and walked quickly offstage. The crowd applauded and some stood, assuming an encore was imminent. Mr. Anderson motioned for one of his orchestra members to take his place conducting and exited the stage. Before the audience had time to question what was happening, the loud bash and crash of the drummer the orchestra had auditioned the previous day caught everyone's attention. His drumsticks were a blur as he assaulted the drums with the ferocity of a boxer beating down his opponent. The rest of the orchestra seemed to be as spellbound as the audience, allowing the drums what must have been a solid 3 minutes of abuse before the horns and piano jumped into the race.

I extinguished my cigarette and the rest of my drink and started for the back stairs leading to the stage. I was halfway to the stairs when I glanced back at the door for the time- bottom of the hour, time to check in with Tina. I hesitated, wanting to get backstage and find out what had the Andersons in such a hurry to exit stage left they didn't even wait for the applause. I walked quickly to the coat check and dialed the phone.

"Tina? It's San."

"Right on time. How's the hurricane party?" Tina asked.

"I thought it was swell, but the Andersons don't seem to be enjoying it much. Did Artie check in?"

"No, I'm starting to worry," Tina replied.

"Mr. Anderson is here, so he should be heading back to the office to drop you off at home. He's probably right outside the office wrapping Celine in cottonballs." I said.

"Still want Artie there at midnight?"

"Tell him to cool his heels in the office a bit, the party's still going strong right now. I'll check in again at half past and let him know."

"Okay, Santana. 'Night, honey," Tina said.

"'Night, Tina," I said replacing the receiver on the hook.

I made my way backstage and found the Andersons' dressing rooms as I had the afternoon before. There were few people walking around backstage so I paused outside of Mr. Anderson's door hoping to hear what might be going on inside. After a moment without a peep, I knocked lightly on Mrs. Anderson's door. I could faintly hear Mrs. Anderson's voice but not what she was saying or who was responding. I knocked again and called, "Mrs. Anderson, it's me Santana Lopez. Are you okay?"

"Santana, yes. Yes, I'm fine. I'm- I'm busy right now, could you come back later?" Mrs. Anderson replied.

I don't know what it was but something in her voice told me she was anything but fine so I persisted. "Mrs. Anderson, this can't wait. I need to talk to you about our conversation yesterday."

"Our conversation?" I heard Mrs. Anderson speak again, too softly for me to make out and then she spoke again from what I could tell was very close to the door. "What conversation?"

"Mrs. Anderson, the article I'm writing for the Metropolis City Section," I replied, pausing. "Mrs. Anderson, if you don't have time to talk, I can always do my interview with Mr. Anderson tonight and talk to you-"

"No, no, it's fine. Please, come in," Mrs. Anderson called from behind the door.

I heard the click of the door unlocking and I turned the knob to enter. I had barely stepped inside the door when I noticed a figure dressed in a black dinner jacket crumpled across the white chaise lounge.

"Santana!" I heard Mrs. Anderson say.

Before I could turn back to the door, I saw a flash of lighting and felt the room turn on its side. My brain had time to register the hot white pain across the back of my skull as my eyes saw a flash of red and the room went black.

* * *

**IV**

I lay on the floor of Mrs. Anderson's dressing room, reflecting on the good and the bad of the situation. The good was that I was reflecting, so barring some sort of purgatory, the particulars of which I'd left in Sunday school along with my fear of nuns with rulers, I was still alive. The bad was that the doctor was going to have a hard time telling the difference between my head and a birthday piñata. Despite my best efforts, consciousness slipped through my fingers like that last tiny wet sliver of soap in the bath. Kaleidoscope images twisted and tumbled before my eyes and then drifted away like mirages. Voices and muffled music played at the wrong speed. The only thing I was sure of was the color red. Mrs. Anderson's peaceful white sanctuary was a red razed battlefield.

I was told later they used smelling salts to revive me, but it felt more like a sucker punch to the jaw. Given that Police Chief Finn Hudson was standing over me when I woke, both are equally likely, maybe even the punch by a nose. I knew I should be thankful for waking up at all, I'm not exactly sure my attacker intended it that way, but Hudson's mug inches from mine as my first fuzzy vision was making me want to recount those blessings.

"Well, well, Miss Lopez." Hudson began, fussing with the brass buttons on his ridiculously ornate uniform, designed specifically to prevent the wearer from being useful. "Seems every time I turn over a rock in this town, there you are."

"You're a swell guy, Hudson. A gentleman like you always knows the polite way to kick a girl when she's down," I said. My eyes started to focus again and there was Hudson, just as I remembered him, a face only a mother could love… on payday. "Now that you've come to my rescue, mind telling me the nature of the rock I was under? I'd like to ask for my money back on that ride."

"Are you saying you don't know where you are, Miss Lopez?" Hudson's eyebrow raised as his lips drew into a displeased pout. "I find you in the middle of a murder scene and you don't know where you are. Curiosity is getting the better of me."

My first instinct was to stand up bolt straight. Hudson must have been used to this response as his hand settled on my shoulder preventing me from rising. I tried to look left and right around him, Hudson shifted his weight, blocking my view. I recognized the chair I was sitting in, the back was pressed against the edge of Mrs. Anderson's dressing table. I turned to the mirror. Hudson dominated my field of vision, but I caught glimpses of policeman in their black uniforms furiously taking notes and snapping pictures, they scurried about like the unwanted picnic guests they were.

"I don't know if you missed the announcement, Hudsy, but I was lumped over the head. I don't remember anything other than seeing Orion and the Big and Little Dippers, they send their regards," I said, looking at him in the mirror. "Then I wake to the heavenly vision that is your beautiful kisser."

"Miss Lopez, given your present position, I advise you not to antagonize me."

I gave up trying to make out what was happening in the room and turned my attention to my reflection. A hair-thin tributary of blood had dried running from my hairline to my eyebrow. I rubbed it away with my fingertip and went searching for the source. The instant my fingers touched the back of my head I yelped in pain. The blood-matted hair was doing a poor job of protecting an egg-shaped lump on the back of my head. "My present position is what exactly? In need of a licensed physician?"

"Don't worry, Miss Lopez, a doctor is on his way. I'm afraid you're going to need stitches."

"Smashing, no pun intended," I replied. "Tell him to ask the bartender for a whiskey anesthetic on the way. And like that, my chances of making Metropolis' best coiffed list are dashed. I'll have you know I was in contention for-" As I turned to address Hudson, I caught sight of a solid block of dark red running down the side of my formerly white cocktail dress. I wouldn't consider myself a fainting violet at the sight of blood, but I must admit the sight of myself covered in it gave me great pause.

Hudson saw my sheet white face and replied, "Lieutenant Karofsky!" A black uniformed bruiser goose-stepped to Hudson's side. "Make a note of this, Miss Lopez is speechless. No one down at the station will believe it," Hudson continued. Karofsky, who much like Hudson, didn't appear to be chock full of IQ points to spare, looked confused.

"Sir?" Karofsky asked.

"Never mind Lieutenant," Hudson said, waving the confused officer away. "Don't worry, Miss Lopez, we've been thorough, the only injury you have is that gash on your head. The blood is not yours."

"Who's is it? Where's Mrs. Anderson? Mr. Anderson? Who was murdered?"

"Miss Lopez! You forget which of us is wearing the badge," Hudson replied tapping his tin star. "I'll be asking the questions and you'll be answering them. What were you doing here tonight?"

"Did you see the sign out front, there was a hurricane party! Oh, weren't you invited Hudsy?" I said, feeling my side and legs to be sure Hudson was right and this blood wasn't mine. Thankfully confirmed, I needed to know where Mrs. Anderson was and if she was okay. I tried once more to stand.

"Lopez, sit!" Hudson put both hands on my shoulders. "You will answer my questions or the Lieutenant here will be gifting you with a pair of handcuffs that won't match your dress," Hudson said with a decidedly unamusing chuckle.

"Lay another fingerprint on me and you'll be talking to my lawyer, Hudson. Exactly what reason are you holding me?"

Hudson took a step back so that the chaise in the center of the room was visible. There sat a woman with tangled blonde hair. Her red gown torn. Her face smeared with black streaks from where her eye makeup had run. Her eyes rimmed in red. Mrs. Anderson sobbed silently, looking at the floor. My eyes followed hers and there on the floor, in the middle of Mrs. Anderson pristine white dressing room, was a pool of blood atop which lay a sheet draped form that appeared to be a body.

"Britt!" I called out, forgetting for a moment the formalities. She looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. It was then that I noticed her hands. Worse than my dress, her hands were stained red with blood. She opened her mouth to speak and lifted her hands as if to ask for an explanation. Before she could say anything an officer placed handcuffs on her wrists, helped her stand, and guided her towards the door. She looked back over her shoulder at me pleading with her eyes for help. "Don't say anything! Don't say anything!" I shouted.

"Good! If you both resist this will be more fun for me," Hudson smiled. "Santana Lopez, you are being held for questioning in the investigation of the death of Mr. Blaine Anderson."

* * *

**V**

I was spared the metal tennis bracelets as I was escorted into the Metropolis Sixth Precinct, home to our glorious, and somewhat notorious, men in black. Normally the clamor of phones ringing and each officer speaking louder to be heard over the next made it impossible to think, a none-too-desirable trait in a police station, but the hurricane had knocked out all phone service and the bullpen was uncharacteristically quiet. As such, all eyes were on me as I entered in my dual personality cocktail dress: side one sophisticated socialite, side two manicured murderess. I knew a few of the beat uniforms quite well and reassured them it wasn't me that had lost a few quarts on my dress.

I was told this visit was purely voluntary; I was free to leave at any time, but having a female uniform spot welded to my side at all times made my stay seem slightly less than congenial. After a visit from the physician, I was issued what looked like a set of white pajamas to change into; my blood-soaked cocktail dress stuffed in a paper bag. I was mentally composing a letter of accommodation for Hudson's superior hospitality when I caught sight of the writing on the breastpocket of the pajamas- Metropolis Psychiatric Ward. Hudson, sometimes I didn't give him enough credit for being the fount of wit he was. As the uniform delivered me to Lt. Karofsky, the majority of the squad room stood up and applauded my new attire- a few "it's about time" remarks thrown in for good measure. If I hadn't drunk the majority of them under the table or beaten them at billards, the comments might have hurt my feelings.

Karofsky ushered me into Chief Hudson's office and offered me a glass of water. I ordered something stronger, but he must have mixed up the order; I let him know his tip would not be forthcoming.

"Thanks for the snappy threads, Hudsy. Were they out of straitjackets?" I said, taking my familiar seat in front of his desk. Why Hudson found it necessary to upset the digestion of visitors with a large portrait of himself hung behind his desk I'll never know.

"There weren't any in your size, Lopez. Believe me, I checked," Hudson replied, not looking up from whatever he was writing.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of professional courtesy," Hudson started, stressing the word professional as if he didn't really believe it. "What were you doing at the Soirées Noires last night?"

"I told you, there was a hurricane party. Forgetting to wear your earplugs on the gun range, Hudsy or just not getting all that wax in the morning?"

"Lopez, you're not helping endear yourself to me," Hudson replied.

"It's been a long time since I burst into tears because someone didn't like me, Hudson. What is it exactly you want to know from me? I told you I was beaned in the head and then it was lights out until you so majestically materialized," I said.

"Were you working for Mrs. Anderson? She says you were," Hudson said, flipping through a notepad.

"If she says so, then I was. Why ask me?"

"The word of woman accused of murdering her husband isn't exactly legal tender, Lopez. What did she hire you for?"

"That, Hudson, is privileged information. Check the door again when you come by, _private_ investigations."

"She came to us a month ago about threatening letters. Said she needed protection for herself and Mr. Anderson," Hudson said, looking over the top of his reading glasses.

"And you gave her such peace of mind she came to us."

"And now her husband is dead. It's not a banner day for either of us, Lopez," Hudson said with sincerity. I nodded my head conceding the point. "Is there anything you can tell us that might help?"

My mind flashed to the feel of the cold revolver barrel in her purse against my hand. Instinct told me to keep this card in my hand until I knew what Hudson was holding. "Help what? Send her upriver? You asking me to convict her for you?"

"Lopez, you, she, and her dead husband were found in a locked room. She was bloodied and holding a knife, the broken tip of which was lodged in her husband's back. Are you saying you did it?" Hudson studied my face carefully.

"What does she say?" I asked, trying not to betray my own thoughts.

"She says she was drugged and doesn't remember much of last night at all. And what she does remember doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't make sense?" I asked.

"That's enough of the one way street, Lopez. If you've got information to the contrary, now's the time to be a good citizen and come forward. Her alibi has as many holes in it as a fishing net."

Hudson continued with his best solo good cop-bad cop routine, but when it became clear I wasn't just giving him the usual runaround and honestly didn't have any memory of the evening after lights out in Mrs. Anderson's dressing room, he told me to stay in town, pointed the way out, and slammed the door on my shoulder blades.

Since I couldn't call for a taxi, Karofsky offered to give me a ride if I could wait a few minutes. It was either walk or wait, so I took the time to catch up with the uniforms I palled around with from time to time. None of them had more information on the Anderson case than Hudson had already shared with me. When the police were summoned to break into the dressing rooms, they found three people on the floor: me with a rendering of the Grand Canyon on my head, Mrs. Anderson with a broken bloody knife in hand, and Mr. Anderson with the tip of a knife protruding from one of the many knife wounds on his now dead body. Locked room, dead husband, wife holding the murder weapon, open and shut case, one of the uniforms said. Open and shut, life was never that simple.

Some might have found it rude, but I was thankful Karofsky didn't make small talk driving me back to the office. I wasn't in the mood to debate politics or pick over the latest box scores. Most people would have headed home after a night like I'd had, but I knew word of the murder would be all over the papers and with the phone lines down I wanted to save Artie and Tina some undue grief. If I knew Artie he'd probably been pacing for hours. My eyes took in the mess of a party Hurricane Adrianne had thrown. Either by excellent planning or pure luck, Metropolis had escaped relatively unscathed. A few downed telephone poles, a broken window here and there, but for the most part, trash tumbleweeds were the worst of it. Adrianne wasn't so big a party girl after all.

* * *

**IV**

I climbed the stairs up to the office landing, the images and sounds of the last few days running though my head like unruly school kids, refusing to sit still for even a moment so I could take roll call. I tried my best to take stock of what I knew. I had very little to show for the visit to the police station that a primer on police procedurals couldn't have accomplished in less time and with a good nap at the end. Somewhere in the locked safe that was my head I had the answers to all this, I'd had a front row seat to a murder. I just needed to remember.

I must have burst through the door of the office because Tina looked shocked and very much taken off guard at seeing me. It wasn't everyday what looked like and escaped mental patient came barging through the office door.

"Tina, morning, Angel," I said as I closed the door behind me and started towards my office. "Could you bring me some coffee right away and get ready to take some notes? And could you do something with this?" I said handing her the paper bag with my bloody dress in it.

"Santana, I-" Tina's eyes widened as she looked at me, apparently stunned by the contents of the bag.

"Oh! Sorry! Tina, it's okay, it's not my blood. I'm fine. I'll get cleaned up in a jiff. Give me 15 minutes then send in coffee. Wait another 10 and then send in Artie. Let him know I'm okay, will you?" Before Tina could answer I was in my office, quickly discarding the looney loungers and washing up in the sink. I even did my best to brush my hair, careful not to hit the new cross stitch in my scalp. Dressed in one of the suits I kept in the office, I sat down at my desk and laced up my shoes.

"Tina? That coffee?" I walked out to see Tina hadn't moved and was still staring into the paper bag. "Just drop it for the incinerator, it's ruined. That's positive reinforcement for ya, a gal dresses up all lady like and what does it buy her?" I was halfway back to my office door when I heard a sob erupt from Tina.

"Santana!"

"Tina? What gives? I'm okay. I promise you. A little worse for wear but fine." I kneeled at Tina's side as she wiped her face with a handkerchief. "Tina, talk to me?"

"Oh, Santana," she sobbed leaning into me with a hug, her tears wetting the collar of my shirt.

"Tina, darling, I'm okay. Look at me, will you? I'm fine," I said as I stroked her hair.

"Santana, it's Artie. He's been shot."

* * *

**A/N:** **Thank you so much for the encouragement! Thank you reviewers and readers!**

**Big thanks for making this happen to: NEMO(!), Snixx, Nayshen, Mar, and Blueashke.**

**Thanks to Foss for listening to my rants and always steering me back on track. All my love.  
**


	4. Chapter 4 Parts I&II

**Chapter 4**

**Sept 1947**

**[Genénérique | Miles Davis]**

Ask anyone who steps off the train at Union Station, Lady Metropolis, even on her worst days, is hypnotizing. Big City lights, Big City promises, every fantasy you hold you can fulfill in Metropolis. Step off that train and start over. Like a brand new baby, you're mesmerized by the colors, the gleam of the marble, the steel, the glass, the brass. You think every shiny coin is gold and every smiling face and open hand wants the best for you. You never realize you've been rolled for your wallet. You'll never feel that shiny new knife challenging the structural integrity of your vital organs. You never realize any of it, until it's too late. It happens, ask Blaine Anderson.

September was colder and wetter than I could remember. The weather seemed vengeful somehow, the wind slashing at your face and the rain feeling like tiny projectiles lobbed, unrelentingly, from on high. Metropolis seemed to shrug a collective shiver and hunker down for the winter ahead. I'd given up most attempts to "dress appropriately" and wore trousers more often than a skirt. My one concession was to have the pants tailored, that was Tina's idea. She'd even got a pair of the high-waisted tweed pants for herself and was quite taken with them, especially on days when the women of Metropolis walked around in clinging, cold, damp nylons, cursing the wind and rain. Artie said pants on women outside the garden would never catch on. Artie said…

I stepped from under the blue and yellow awning of the Metropolis Memorial hospital, resisting a blast of wind that tried to rob me of an umbrella. In Metropolis, even the wind is out to cheat you. I sidestepped an incoming red and white ambulance and pulled my collar up against the hateful Metropolis wind. It was noon and the skies were bruise purple and threatening rain, again. I had a fifteen block walk between me and the office, but after visiting Artie I needed that time to myself. We visited him every day, Tina in the morning, me at lunch, sometimes again in the evening. It'd gotten so I couldn't sleep without hearing the steady wheezing sound of the ventilator in his room. The nurses were kind; my visits were outside of visiting hours, but they winked, looked the other way, and left an extra blanket and pillow for me. There were bright spots even Metropolis couldn't rub out.

It was hard to know how much hope to hold out for Artie. In the beginning, we camped out at the hospital and got hourly updates. When a week went by without much change, we went back to work. The nurses called Tina daily with less than stellar updates. Then they called weekly. Then, well, it'd been two weeks since the last call. I tried not to read too much into that. People get busy. Simple as that. People get busy, that's all.

I walked quickly through the outer office, hoping to make it to my own desk before Tina could see my tear streaked face. She'd gotten used to the routine after I came back from a visit with Artie, but today I heard her protest as I stepped into my office and shut the door behind me, conscious not to look at Artie's closed door.

"So Lopez, when do I get the exclusive interview?" Noah Puckerman said. He was lounging casually in my chair and smoking a cigarette from the stash in my top drawer. His dark brown hair was clipped short on the sides but the unruly waves on top were barely submitting to taming by pomade. He had the makings of a matinee idol with his brooding hazel eyes and Erol Flynn-worth chin. With his feet up on my desk, he made quite the picture in his vested brown suit, French cuffed shirt, and plaid, perfectly Windsor-knotted necktie.

"Make yourself at home, Puckerman," I said as I hung my overcoat and umbrella on the coat tree. I kept my back to him as I washed my face in the sink next to the door. Tina must have been trying to warn me.

"Thanks, thought you'd say that. Tina made you coffee," he said taking a sip, "I didn't think you'd mind. You should ask her to bring another cup." Puckerman's broad pearly grin got him out of most of the trouble his open mouth usually got him in. Despite the many years I'd known that trick, I still found it hard to suppress a smile.

"The Anderson trial starts next week, you know," Puckerman said, taking a drag on a stolen cigarette and flipping through the newspaper on my desk.

"I'm testifying, of course I know." I dried my face on the hand towel above the sink and waited to see where this was going. Puckerman was my friend, but he was also a reporter, we'd never tested which title he valued more. He'd been 'friend' long before 'reporter', but I wasn't sure chronology counted here. Even though he'd given me a month long reprieve from commenting on the Anderson murder because of Artie's condition, I knew the moratorium would expire eventually. I just wasn't going to make it easy for him. I'd done enough favors for him in the past that guilt wasn't legal tender here.

"Talk around the courthouse says it's even odds she'll switch her plea from not guilty to an insanity plea…sounds like the case is pretty airtight…" Puckerman said, searching. "I mean, a man with a successful club, a twenty grand insurance policy, no kids, and a wife that doesn't like him very much. It adds up." He paused to allow me to answer. When I didn't he added, "Off the record…no response?"

"I did respond. I arched an eyebrow," I said turning away from the sink mirror. "See? I did it again. You can quote me on that." I walked behind my desk and swatted Puckerman with the rolled up newspaper. "Get out of my chair!"

"Ha! Ha! Okay! Okay!" he said as he held his arm up to shield his face. He jumped from my chair nearly knocking his cup of coffee over as he relocated to the small couch under my far window. As he sat down, Tina knocked twice and came in bearing a second coffee cup and a steaming pot of coffee I could smell from across the room.

"I figured you could use another," she said, looking at me as if to ask if I was okay with Puckerman being there.

"Thanks, Tina," I smiled and winked. "Puckerman was just saying how great your coffee is. Weren't you?'

"I was! I was!" Puckerman stood and strode across the room, taking the coffee pot from Tina's hand, pouring a cup for me while refilling his own. "You know, if you were enterprising about it, I bet you could charge three or four times the going rate for a really good cup of coffee like this. I'm talking thirty, forty cents for a single cup," he said speaking with his cigarette dangling precariously from his lips.

Tina and I looked at each other incredulously, "I'm sure the Carnegies and the Rockefellers would play along, but the John Smiths of the world would laugh me out of town!" Tina replied.

"Just be sure while they're laughing you sell them a cup of water while you're at it!" I added.

"Yeah, sell them water! Charge a commission on the air, too!" Tina laughed

Puckerman frowned and looked genuinely hurt as he sat back down on the couch, crossed his legs, and flicked his cigarette at the ashtray next to the couch. "Sure, sure, laugh it up! You people don't recognize genius when you hear it," he growled and took another sip of his coffee.

"Noah," I said smiling, "you've been reading too many futuristic Buck Rogers comic strips. Maybe you can call your special coffee 'Buck Rogers Starship Coffee'? People might pay extra for starship coffee." I smirked and winked at Tina who was holding in a guffaw. Puckerman groused.

"Need anything else? I need to buy a few things- stamps, envelopes and typewriter ribbons," Tina said topping off both of our coffee cups. I shook my head 'no'. "Okay, I'll be back in an hour."

"Seriously, Lopez, how are things?" Puckerman asked.

"I'm fine. It's Artie and Britt Anderson you should be worried about."

"Yeah, how is Artie?" Puckerman asked. Artie and Puckerman had known each other longer than I'd known either of them. Although neither ever said a bad word about the other, I always got the sense something had happened neither had quite gotten over.

Sensing Puckerman wanted the easy answer I said, "Artie's the same, knock wood."

Puckerman leaned towards the windowsill and literally knocked. "Yeah, knock wood." I could almost hear him counting to ten in his head to allow the appropriate amount of time before changing the subject. "So, worried for Britt Anderson, huh? Color me confused. The one who clobbered you and ventilated her husband? Why should I be worried for her?"

If Artie had been here, I'd have discussed what I knew about that night a hundred times before today, but up 'til now I'd felt like this songbird was better off keeping her song to herself.

"Tell me what you've heard about the case, Puckerman," I said as I offered a cigarette to him from my desk drawer.

"Well," he said standing and walking to my desk to accept the cigarette, "I've heard a lot, what do you want to hear first?" He pulled a lighter from his vest pocket to light my cigarette.

I nodded thanks and squinted at him, "It's your stage Puckerman, spin the tale any way you wish."

"How about we switch from coffee to whatever you've got in your desk and I'll tell you everything I know," Puckerman said with a knowing wink.

I can't remember the last time someone had to ask me twice to share a drink; the shot glasses were on my desk and filled to the brim before he finished his sentence. I made a mental inventory of the status of my liquid reserves. It was fair to say I'd kept my back teeth floating the weeks after Artie was shot and Blaine was killed. Call me foolish, but a whiskey-colored reality was all the realism I could stand at the time. But even the deepest sea fish had to surface and Tina had seen to it that I emerged from my libations-only diet tout suite.

Puckerman tossed back the first glass and shuddered. "Leave it to you to not waste money on the good stuff."

"Can't taste anything after the second or third drink, why bother?" I said pouring, us both a second glass.

"Touché," Puckerman said clinking his glass against mine. "Where to begin…how about the police report?" I nodded and Puckerman sat back on the couch and began.

Chief Hudson must have questioned the mice at the Soirées Noires that night; he'd laid out a timeline that was impressive, even to me and I'd been there. Rehearsals for the hurricane party had ended late that evening, close to 6PM. The fireworks I'd seen between Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were nowhere in sight at rehearsal. According to the orchestra and the chorus girls, the Andersons got on well all afternoon. After rehearsals, no one had specific information about their whereabouts, because like everyone else they were scurrying about trying to get ready for the hurricane party. Everyone seemed to remember seeing them, but with no specific idea of the time.

Tex Williams and a few of the other bands stranded by the hurricane said Blaine was still at the club a little before 8PM that night. Blaine had been there to greet them and told them he'd put them up for the night in exchange for a quick set. The kitchen staff said Mrs. Anderson had checked in with them and the bartenders a final time around then to make sure the menu was satisfactory and that they had enough rum and juice for the hurricane cocktails. She'd taken some chamomile tea and a glass of water back to her dressing room, everyone assuming she'd take her headache powder and sleep until just before the show, as usual.

"And this is where you come in," Puckerman said, blowing a smoke ring into the air. "They checked all the phone records of the club and seems you called here at about 8:45PM. Sound about right?"

"If that's what Chief Hudson says, who am I to argue," I replied. My mind flashed to an image of Artie saluting as he got into his beloved Celine and drove off. The last time I saw him smiling. The last time anyone but the bastard who shot him saw him. I poured another drink and focused on Puckerman.

No one saw either of the Andersons until Mrs. Anderson began greeting guests and Mr. Anderson blew through the front door after 9:30. Dozens of star-struck guests reported the two of them saying hello and shaking their hands just a few minutes before they both disappeared to get ready for the show. Mr. Anderson had his usual pre-show snack of a sardine sandwich and beer. Mrs. Anderson had a cup of hot water and honey. Nothing unusual.

Mr. Anderson talked to the orchestra before they went on and told them to give it their all tonight, a pep talk from their captain. They remembered him being extra antsy about the performance and assumed it was because some producers where in the audience. There was rumor of an offer for a radio show to be broadcast live from the Soirées Noires. The Noir Orchestra and the Andersons took to the stage at 10 and Mr. Anderson's pretty songbird sang her heart out. Instead of the two song set they had rehearsed, Mrs. Anderson left the stage after the first song. Mr. Anderson let the new drummer loose on a piece they'd been practicing and left the stage after her. After that another band performed and the storm kicked up, so no one could quite put their finger on what happened when.

Puckerman said that according to the police report, the lights kept flickering on and off and one of the waiters wanted permission from Mr. Anderson to start filling the kerosene lanterns. When no one answered either Mr. or Mrs. Anderson's locked dressing room doors, they got worried, the storm and all, and busted Mr. Anderson's door down. Nothing seemed out of place, but Mr. Anderson wasn't there. The waiter knocked on the door adjoining Mrs. Anderson's dressing room and thought he heard a whimper. The waiter says he thought maybe they were canoodling so he backed away embarrassed and went to get the kerosene. Turns out Mr. Anderson is every fire marshal's friend and he had the kerosene in a locked fire cabinet. With the power flicking off for longer periods of time, they decided they couldn't wait. The staff drew straws and one of the cigarette girls, Anna, won the privilege of interrupting the Anderson's petting party to get the key.

Around midnight, with half the staff waiting in the hallway snickering, one of the waiters jimmied the door lock, and Anna opened the door joining the two dressing rooms. When she screamed loud enough to wake the gods on Mt. Olympus, they all came running. They were more than familiar with the snowy white scene of Mrs. Anderson's dressing room, so no doubt they were thrown by the red hell before them. Three bodies, all covered in blood, Mr. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson, and me. Most people would be surprised how much blood one body contains, no one could blame them from assuming all three of us were dead. They made no attempt to enter the room and after finding the phone lines were down, someone drove to fetch the police. They reached the station at 12:15AM.

The power was completely out by then and along with it the air conditioner. No doubt the metallic sweet smell of warm blood was overpowering when the first detective stepped into the room with only a flashlight to light his way. Sweeping the light through the room, Mrs. Anderson's dress and the mirror throwing his beam back at him. Mrs. Anderson was lying with her back against the wall near the back of the room, her face, dress, and hands bloodied, a broken knife in her lap. His beam settled on Mr. Anderson, lying on his stomach near the door, his trademark red glasses crushed beside him. His face was viciously slashed, his eyes gouged, and his mouth lay open contorted in a horrific grimace of pain. At the time, no one knew the identity of the cocktail dress-wearing third body. The detective described a wound the size of his hand, open and bleeding in the midst of the black mass of hair.

"Poor guy got the fright of a lifetime when you started moving," Puckerman said.

"Imagine my side of the scenario," I replied, taking a sip of whiskey. "You get a look at that police report or did they type you out a copy special?"

"A steel trap, better than a mimeo," Puckerman said, tapping his temple.

"How do you keep it from rusting with all the rain we've been having?" I said.

"Funny gal," Puckerman replied. "If you're curious, the coroner took a look at the picture of your noggin and the crime scene photos and is pretty sure you got crowned with the lead crystal ashtray they found next to you."

"An ashtray? Some nuts do say smoking is bad for your health," I laughed. "What did the coroner say about Mr. Anderson?"

"Not much to say, really. He was stuck more than a dozen times, probably bled out in seconds. She slashed up his face, his eyes, pretty gruesome stuff," Puckerman continued. "She was vicious about it too. Heard the saying 'stick the knife in and twist it'? Yeah, well she did. Coroner said each wound was wider than the knife, she must've worked it around while it was in him. She broke the blade off with a blow that hit his spinal cord. Even if he'd lived he'd be a vegetable."

"I see. Sounds like you've heard everything I could possibly tell you. I don't remember anything after the blow to the head and Hudson's timeline is golden. I can't argue with any bit of it," I said, coming around to the front of my desk and sitting on the edge.

"Glad to see Hudson earns his paycheck," Puckerman said, coming to stand in front of me after extinguishing his cigarette. "There was one thing though. Phone records say you called here at 8:45, 9:30, and 10:30. That sounds like surveillance to me. What were you working on? Who hired you?"

"When Tina gets back I've got to tell her to get the painter out her to make that sign on the door bigger- the private part," I said looking Puckerman square in the eye. "You know I can't tell you that anymore than you would reveal a source."

"So you were working. Fine, that's all I needed to know," Puckerman said, smiling and taking his coat and hat from the tree.

"Noah, before you go. Any word on Artie's case? Any leads?" I asked. I was a detective, don't think I hadn't spent the few sober hours those first few weeks trying to figure out what had happened to Artie. He never called in to Tina, so we don't even know if he made it to the Anderson's apartment. With the hurricane, not too many people were out on the streets, so no matter how many doors I'd knocked on no one could remember seeing him or his car. They'd found Celine wrapped around a telephone pole a few blocks from the hospital. He must have been trying to drive himself there and then fell unconscious. No clues where or by whom or why he was shot. The only person who had any idea was strapped to a machine that was doing the vital business of breathing for him. The police were caught up in the Anderson case, as was the rest of Metropolis. They wrote it off as some husband out for revenge after we'd turned over the pictures of him with his mistress to his wife. If that was true, that hubby was plenty mad, he'd followed Artie all night in the middle of a storm to shoot him down? Why not wait and catch him sitting duck at the office? It didn't make sense, but I couldn't convince Hudson to spend more time on it and after two months, I was still nowhere myself.

"Nah, nothing, Lopez. You know I'd tell you right away if I'd heard anything," Puckerman replied donning his hat and coat.

"Yeah, I know. I just…thanks, Noah," I said.

"Sure thing," he turned to leave my office but paused. "Hey, buddy of mine down at the courthouse doesn't believe me when I say I survived in the ring with the heavyweight champ. Next week, back me up and tell him I did? I got dinner for two at Sardi's on the line," Puckerman smiled.

"You call that surviving? You lasted twelve seconds, and that's including the ten second count," I said, walking with Puckerman to the front door.

"I didn't say it looked good, just that I did it!" As Puckerman reached for the door, it swung open and Tina walked in carrying the office supplies she'd picked up. "Miss Tina," Puckerman said bowing low and taking the bags from Tina, setting them on her desk.

"Thank you, Mr. Puckerman," Tina said and began unpacking.

"Well ladies, back to work like the rest of those sorry suckers. I'll see you soon," and with a wave Puckerman was gone, closing the door behind him.

"Everything okay?" Tina asked as she opened the cabinet door to put away a stack of typewriter ribbons.

"No, Puckerman told me what he saw in the police reports on the Anderson case," I said frowning.

"And?"

"There was someone else in that dressing room besides me and the Andersons."

* * *

**II**

The headlines of both Metropolis papers were ablaze with scandalous details related to the Anderson trial. Metropolis was the big bad wolf licking its chops and the Anderson's personal life was the succulent little girl in a natty red outfit wondering to where grandma had disappeared. As the trial drew closer, the Metropolis daily rags fed the wolf evermore-tasty morsels of gossip. The Noirs (aka Andersons) were cultists. They participated in black magic, sex parties, and every other lurid activity the editors could dream up. The list grew more outrageous as each reporter and newspaper tried to outdo the other and keep its linotype wet and steadily turning out dirty laundry disguised as news. I don't sport wings, strum a harp or polish any golden headwear by any stretch of even a newspaper editor's imagination. Our detective agency's ledger is in the black because of Metropolis' cheating heart, so throwing stones at the Metropolis dailies for capitalizing off the Anderson case would mean an awful lot glass to sweep up. The difference is my job is to hunt down that mythical beast called the truth. I get paid to bring that ill-mannered runt kicking and screaming into the light. Sometimes he's downright ugly; I can't help that.

Britt Anderson's trial was set to begin on Thursday afternoon at 1PM. The joke around the courthouse was starting midday midweek gave the attorneys more opportunities for cigars, rye whiskey, and backroom handshaking. Mrs. Anderson had gotten herself the most well known defense attorney in Metropolis, William Schuester, Esq.. He was well versed in the art of the backroom deal. He prided himself on it. Too bad she hadn't gotten the best defense attorney in Metropolis. The best lawyer in Metropolis was the one you probably never heard of before. He's not the one speaking the most or the loudest. He's not the one in the newspapers or on the radio. There aren't pictures of him shaking hands with the prominent businessmen of Metropolis, eating at the finest restaurants, or driving the fanciest cars. Mike Chang isn't any of those things. What he is, is a lawyer who knows the law like the back of his hand and believes that everyone deserves a fair shake.

I'd had an uneasy feeling all week. The kind of uneasy that starts in your toes, runs roughshod up your spine and kicks around in your head to the point where you can't sleep or think about anything else. My stomach and head were taking the worst of it. As the clock ticked down the opening statements of Mrs. Anderson's trial, I knew things would get worse before they got better. The afternoon of the trial, I asked Mike to meet me for lunch at the Justice Street Diner around the corner from the courthouse. Whenever we'd gotten in scrapes with Chief Hudson and company, Mike had been there to give us sound advice. I thought of him as a friend. I trusted him. I pinned a lot of unjustified hope on Mike calming my nerves.

Mike's graceful long and lanky form came through the door precisely on time. Dressed in a brown overcoat, dark blue suit, matching Windsor knotted tie, and starched handkerchief peeking from his breastpocket, Mike was the epitome of crisp clean elegance amongst the sea of Metropolis' grey suited army. We took a booth overlooking the street and caught up bit while we waited for our lunch to arrive.

"So tell me again how you got mixed up in all this?" Mike said, pulling his knife across the cubed steak special and depositing three bites-worth into his mouth.

"She was my client. She hired us to find out who'd been sending them threatening letters," I said, taking a sip of my grapefruit juice. I looked down at the unappetizing bowl of cottage cheese I was now regretting having ordered.

"And?" Mike said, with his mouth full of steak, "What I mean is, that turned sour pretty fast. So why are you still interested?"

"She was a client, Mike, she gave us money to help solve her problem, we failed. We failed big time. I know mine is a very messy business, but I owe it to her to follow through on this."

"Do you know all the facts?" Mike asked, taking another oversized bite of steak before pausing to look at me as he lifted his cup of coffee.

"No. Not nearly enough of them," I answered, pushing the bowl of cottage cheese away from me and motioning for the waitress to bring me a cup of joe.

"You know there's not much I can do without getting a look at the state's evidence and I can't do that without her lawyer's permission…and you know Schuester isn't going to allow that," Mike said pulling the cottage cheese over to his side of the table. "You mind?"

"Knock yourself out, Mike," I said, flinching as he dug into the cottage cheese with enthusiasm. "What if I could get you copies of the police reports?"

"Nothing underhanded, San, I don't work that way," Mike said between bites.

"Yeah, I figured you say that." I thanked the waitress for the coffee she delivered. I'd taken to carrying a pill vial of aspirin and I fished around for it in my pocket before popping two in my mouth followed by a swig of bitter black coffee. "Are you busy this afternoon? Could you sit in on the prosecution's opening statements and just tell me what you think?"

"Santana? What good would hearing the opening do? I'd have to hear the whole thing to help you and the prosecution's case could go on for days. Business is slow, but it isn't that slow," Mike replied.

"Mike, please? I really think she's innocent." Hearing it aloud for the first time, even I had to shake my head. I'd known Britt Anderson for a handful of hours and talked to her for fewer still, but here I was pleading her case. Me, the dupe who woke up in her locked dressing room covered in her husband's blood after being crowned over the head. Call me crazy, and I'm sure I'd deserve it, but I believed she was innocent.

Mike paused and looked me. Either he saw the sincerity in my eyes or he wanted to avoid the melodrama of me begging him in a crowded restaurant. I didn't really care which, as long as I had him by my side today. Mike nodded and busied himself polishing off the cottage cheese. I felt one less knot in my churning stomach. I lit up a cigarette to celebrate.

We talked a bit more about the case and he said he wanted to run back to the office, settle his calendar for the next few days, and look up a few things. We agreed to meet outside the courtroom at 12:45. As he stood and shrugged on his overcoat, he looked at me one last time.

"Say, Santana?"

"Yeah, Mike?"

"You're not planning on wearing those pants to the courtroom are you?"

I looked down at my best pair of grey tweed slacks and matching vest, then back up at Mike. "I-"

"Judge Sylvester is a lot of things, but tolerant of new…uh…fashion, she is not. She once issued a contempt of court citation to an attorney who dared to let his hair grow past his ears. I wouldn't try," he motioned at my pants with his hat, "…that, today."

"Fine," I said with an exasperated sigh. I thought my outfit was all sorts of well mannered; even paid extra to get cuffs and pleats. I suppose I could drag Metropolis into the mid-twentieth century another day.

"See you in 20 minutes," Mike said donning his hat and waving as he rushed off.

After catching a taxi back home and changing, I hurried to meet Mike outside courtroom 19D of the Metropolis Federal Courthouse. I'd been inside the new building nearly a dozen times since it had officially opened a few months before, but I still paused a moment in the grand hall. Taking in the mosaic of the blue and white state seal beneath my feet, the dozen foot tall statue of Lady Justice thrusting her chin and scales towards the rising sun, the state motto "Excelsior" and it's translation "Ever Upward" carved above the three halls that lead away from the main foyer, I was pretty sure my mouth was agape like a bumpkin fresh off the bus from Small Town, USA. If there was one thing Metropolis excelled at better than any place I'd ever seen, it was grandiosity. The new courthouse was the latest showcase of this questionably valuable Metropolis skill.

"Much better," Mike said, offering me his arm to enter the courtroom. I took it. He approved of the second incarnation of my Lois Lane look, this one dark burgundy with white piping and a fake white breastpocket handkerchief. Every day I spent in my slacks, returning to these dresses felt more and more uncomfortable. The image of me tossing a match on all my gasoline soaked dresses brought a smile to my face. One day.

Mike pushed open the courtroom door and while I knew it was a big case, I wasn't prepared for a courtroom filled to capacity with photographers, reporters, and general lookey-loos. Because Mike was an attorney, he had a badge to be there, likewise, me being a witness. We took seats up near the front of the courtroom reserved for authorized, in other words, badged, persons.

As we walked to the front, I felt my mouth fall open again. I knew the six courtrooms denoted with a 'D' were the largest in the building; I'd just never had the opportunity to see the inside of one. If you were to look down from the top, the courtroom would have the shape of a keyhole, a round circle with a rectangle attached to the bottom. The rectangle portion of this courtroom, like every other courtroom in the building, was filled with dark colored wood benches, the gallery. I'm sure it was no coincidence that the benches resembled church pews. Walking down the parquet wood aisle between the dozen or so rows of benches, one had to resist the urge to genuflect. As in the other courtrooms, a curved mahogany railing, literally a bar, separated the business end of the courtroom from the gallery. The lower portion of the circle was occupied by matching long tables with chairs pulled up to them- the defense, to the left at seven o'clock on the clock face and the prosecution, to the right at five o'clock. Arching along the wall to the right of the prosecution from four to three o'clock was the jury box, with its three rows of six straight-backed chairs lined up like soldiers in formation, one each for the twelve jurors and six alternates. Two doors, one leading to the jury room, the other the bailiff and court reporter's office occupied two o'clock.

At the twelve o'clock, the top of the circle, was the mahogany behemoth known as the bench. Divided into three unequal parts, the bench housed the witness box, closest to the jury box, the seat for the judge, which took up the majority of the structure, and the court reporter's box, furthest away from the jury. The witness and court reporter's box were each big enough to fit two chairs comfortably. In the case of the witness box, there was just one chair, in the court reporter's box, there was also a single chair, but the stenograph machine took the rest of the box's space. In comparison, six chairs would have easily fit behind the higher raised portion of the bench where the presiding judge sat. Instead of six chairs, one majestic ox blood- colored leather, brass-braided, and high-backed swivel chair that looked out from under the state seal on the wall behind the bench. When a judge was seated, the seal had the tendency to look like an oversized halo resting on the judge's head as in paintings of saviors and saints from centuries past. Again, no coincidence, I'm sure. Directly behind the judge's chair was a hidden door that lead to the judge's private chambers. I wondered how many judges took advantage of the secret door to appear and disappear with a puff of smoke, adding to the Wizard of Oz effect to which the bench already lent itself.

I'd seen the general layout of the new courtrooms before; the thing that made the 'D' courtrooms special wasn't apparent until I sat down in that front row behind the defense table. Overhead, as if the roof had been lifted off the courtroom to allow the heavens to observe, there was a high vaulted glass ceiling. The skylight was circular and centered above the bench, it allowed golden beams that could easily be mistaken for a spotlight, to shine directly upon the bench, including the judge, court reporter and witness. One more detail added to the theatrical setting of the 'D' courtrooms. Unlike the regular courtrooms where the gallery was limited to the dozen pews in front of the bench, the 'D' courtrooms had a semi-circular second floor balcony that allowed for more than twice as many people to observe trials from on high. With the spotlight casting skylight and now the second story gallery, I couldn't help but be reminded of the setup of the Soirées Noires. Theatrics were theatrics, be they nightclub or courthouse.

Mike must have caught my gaping at the skylight and balcony, he chuckled and asked, "It's beautiful, isn't it? Inspires you to chose your words and actions carefully in here, doesn't it?"

I nodded and tried to look at ease. From the corner of my eye, I saw Puckerman. He was sitting in the pews like everyone else, but through some unnamed talent, always seemed to be lounging much more comfortably than the rest of the world. He smiled and gave a wave.

I must have missed the signal, but in a very well coordinated maneuver, the bailiff, court reporter, the defense, Will Schuester, and the prosecuting attorney took their seats at their perspective tables. After a beat, a police officer lead Britt Anderson in through a door to the left of the court reporters box I had failed to notice upon first glance. As if she had just taken the stage, the once low buzzing courtroom, was silent for a moment as she walked with majestic grace to sit next to Schuester. Just as under the Soirées Noires spotlight, the skylight lit her golden hair like sunshine. The courtroom may have been laid out to make the judge look like a god passing judgment on high, but there was no mistaking the angel in the room was Britt Anderson. The light caressed her from head to toe, bringing out the blue of her eyes, the peaches and cream of her complexion, the subtle pink of her lipstick. Dressed in a blue twill skirt, matching jacket with white buttons up the side and her hair demurely pulled back in a low hanging chignon, she was the antithesis of the Britt Noir about whom the Metropolis papers had bandied sordid tales of debauchery.

Will Schuester looked at Britt with what was an odd mix of pride and pity. Dressed in his trademark dark grey suit and bright blue and white striped bowtie, Schuester paused, caught in Mrs. Anderson's spell like everyone else. The split second of silence in the courtroom was followed by a blinding barrage of camera flashes and shouts of "Mrs. Anderson!, Mrs. Noir!, Britt!" Ever the gallant knight, Schuester stepped out from behind the defense table and took Mrs. Anderson's arm. He guided her to her seat, raising his hand as if to block the shouting or the camera's eyes from reaching her.

Mrs. Anderson's eyes squinted under the glare of the flash bulbs, a nervous smile flickering across her lips. She looked down, placing her hand on the back of her chair, when something made her look back up, directly into my eyes. I hadn't realized it, but I'd been holding my breath since she walked into the courtroom. The moment our eyes met, I felt the air escape me as if I'd been punched in the stomach. She opened her mouth to speak and instinctively I leaned forward. Even though we were only a few feet apart, the noise in the courtroom would have made it impossible to hear unless she shouted. As her lips began to move, I squinted trying to make out the words, until a frowning Will Schuester occupied my field of vision. Keeping himself between Mrs. Anderson and myself, Schuester pulled out Mrs. Anderson's chair and deposited her in it. Schuester then glared back over his shoulder at me and shook his head, before taking his seat next to her.

The bailiff entered the courtroom and announced loudly to be heard over the still joustling gallery, "Hear ye! Hear ye! All rise for the Honorable Judge Susan Sylvester!"

Without the puff of smoke I'd imagined or an equally dramatic slow swivel around of the chair to reveal Judge Sylvester had been there all along, the door behind the bench opened and Judge Susan Sylvester stepped behind the bench. Dressed in her long black robes and at a very unusual height of nearly six feet tall, Judge Sylvester was an imposing figure upon sight. It only took a few minutes in her courtroom to understand that it was her words and mind that you'd better fear much more than her appearance.

Before sitting, Judge Sylvester paused and surveyed the room. She hooked her finger at the bailiff as she sat down and whispered a few words to him as she began shuffling the papers in front of her.

The bailiff turned and addressed the room, "Judge Sylvester has called for a closed courtroom," before the bailiff could even finish his sentence a loud groan and mutterings of frustration erupted from the galleries above and behind me, "if you are not an officer of the court, defendant, witness, or family member, please exit quickly and quietly. You have two minutes."

"What about the public's right to know what goes on here, Sylvester? Freedom of the press?" an anonymous voice shouted from the galleries above.

Judge Sylvester nodded her head to the side and gestured for the bailiff again. "Her Honor has asked that Noah Puckerman remain on behalf of the press. He'll be required to give updates daily." Again the announcement was met with shouts of displeasure, to which Puckerman stood and offered a sly smirk. He held both hands up in mock surrender and blew kisses at the rest of the crowd as they exited.

As the crowd thinned out, I saw the familiar faces of Chief Hudson, Medical Examiner Grissom, several members of the Noir Orchestra and chorus, and the doorman from that fateful evening. Judging by the fact that the majority of the nightclub workers had been seated in the gallery directly behind Mrs. Anderson, they seemed to still be loyal and felt the need to rally around her. She smiled and wiped tears from her eyes as she saw their faces for the first time in months, many reached to clasp her hand before they exited. I saw her lips mime the words 'thank you.'

When the doors to the courtroom closed for the last time, Judge Sylvester cleared her throat and began. "Good. I always find that attorneys, defendants, and jurors are all better behaved without an audience to play up to. Let's get down to business before I bring the jury in. Schuester? You're representing Mrs. Brittany P. Anderson, AKA Britt Noir?"

"I am your honor and may I say-" Schuester began.

"Save it for your acceptance speech, Schuester," Judge Sylvester interrupted.

"District Attorney Ben Israel representing the State?"

"Yes, your Honor," Ben Israel replied.

"Once last time before we launch into spending tax payer dollars, can we not come to an agreement here without a trial?"

"Your Honor, given the evidence we have, the State is compelled to accept no less than a guilty plea. We've offered to consider an insanity plea, but have been declined," Ben Israel said looking over at Mrs. Anderson.

My eyes fell to Mrs. Anderson and Schuester who seemed to be having a heated conversation. Mrs. Anderson was shaking her head 'no'.

"Still no chance, Schuester?" Judge Sylvester asked.

"Your Honor, may I have a moment to discuss with my client?"

"Schuester, today isn't the first day of grade school. You've had since the day you were hired more than a month ago to get your ass in gear. Now either you take the deal or you don't. Simple. Which is it?"

"We'll take the deal," Schuester said quickly.

"No!" Mrs. Anderson cried, standing.

"Mr. Schuester," Judge Sylvester looked down over the top of her glasses, "did you just enter a plea different than what your client wants?"

"Your Honor, I'm trying to make the best decision for her. She's clearly in no state of mind to make these kinds of decisions. I merely-"

"According to the documents I have here, the court psychiatrist has deemed Mrs. Anderson of fit mind to stand trial and finds, quote 'no evidence of impaired mental facilities', end quote. Do you understand what that means, Schuester?" Before he could open his mouth to answer she'd retrained her steel blue eyes on Britt Anderson. "Mrs. Anderson, do you want to declare yourself not guilty by reason of insanity?"

"No, you Honor," Mrs. Anderson replied.

"You understand that if you are found guilty at the end of this trial, the State may not be willing to make the same offer?"

"I-, yes, Your Honor."

"Duly noted. Mr. Ben Israel, you have your answer. Second order of business, Mrs. Anderson, I'm going to call for a recess. I suggest you fire your current representation and find counsel elsewhere. If you have difficulty doing so, tell the bailiff to call the court-appointed defense council. We reconvene at 8AM. Adjourned." Judge Sylvester stood, banged her gavel and disappeared into the wall behind her chair.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks so much for reading and for the reviews, this has been so much fun. **

**Thank you, Foss.**


	5. Chapter 4 Parts IIIthruV

**Chapter Four**

**Sept 1947**

**III**

I've always been a fan of boxing, pugilism, fighting, whatever you'd like to call it. Boxing teaches you a lot about life: how to take a punch on the chin, how to dust off your rear after a licking, and how to stand back up for the next swing without flinching. You see a man box and you know a lot about how he lives his life. You got those brawlers who have deadly power, they lay a hand on you and you better have a plot picked out at Heavenly Rest. Problem is they're predictable and they're so busy trying to knock you out they, don't protect themselves. Then you got the long armers- they keep their opponent at a distance, always staying just out of reach. They use those long arms to wear you down, jab you to death. They ain't gonna dazzle ya, but if you can stay awake to the twelfth round, the points just might add up to a win. And then you got that magic beast who's got it all, the power, the chin, the footwork and the brains. Eight to one this is your winner. That perfect combination of reflexes, accuracy, speed, and intelligence is something you can't teach a fighter, he's gotta be born with it. Woe be to the buster who gets out there and tries to fake it. He'll get his hat handed to him quick. The key to life is finding the style that works for you and practicing like hell. In the end though, what separates the champs from the chumps is understanding that the best way to handle a punch is not to take one in the first place. Defense my friend, defense.

The black and white cab dropped me at the curb outside the courthouse and I handed the driver a bill telling him to keep the difference as payment for the quick, quiet ride from the hospital. I'd spent the night spilling every crepe paper thin memory I had of that June night to Artie, or perhaps really only the walls of his room. I won't deny I hoped I'd squeeze the right brain cell and be rewarded with a newsreel recounting of that night. I lied even to myself that I wasn't secretly expecting Artie to sit up and laugh at me, pointing out the obvious clue on which my mind failed to find traction. Nothing like that happened. I ranted myself hoarse, Artie's respirator wheezed unintelligibly in reply, and I woke to a nurse shaking my shoulder and an empty hip flask.

I smoothed my somber grey worsted wool suit, thankful that it was as wrinkle-resistant as it was comfort-resistant, and slid to the passenger side door. A young man with straw colored hair and an easy smile played gallant and rushed to open the cab door. Forcing my tired eyes to mimic my lips, I smiled and nodded thanks. A pin of two black triangles end to end on a red background, an hourglass- the insignia of the Army Seventh Infantry Division, was affixed to his jacket lapel. The Seventh, the Black Widows, had taken most of the Pacific heat during the war, racking up more losses to the Imperial Army than any other. Looking into his dark hazel eyes that had surely seen too much for their years, I offered a sad smile. "Light, Silent, and Deadly," I whispered. His face registered confusion and then glancing down at his lapel, he smiled back at me. "Thanks for everything," I said, knowing no matter how sincere, the words were pennies on the dollar.

The birds-eye view from the balcony was tailor-made for observing the players in the drama about to unfold in courtroom 19D. The dark brown and tan uniformed bailiff stood, arms folded across his barrel chest, chatting quietly in front of the bench with the court reporter. The court reporter, a trim attractive woman wearing a long flowered skirt, bright yellow blouse and yellow t-strap heels, repeatedly placed her hand on the bailiff's arm in a manner I might mistake for flirting were it not for the gold ring on her left hand. Prosecutor Ben Israel rocked back and forth on his heels, a relaxed smile on his face, his cotton candy hair swaying in time. His hands were shoved deep in his dark brown pants pockets, his displaced suit jacket billowing out to allow a better view of his starched white shirt and black necktie. He talked casually with another man who sat at the prosecution's table, his eyes taking in the courtroom and the defense table, not the man to whom he spoke.

Mike Chang stood stolidly behind the defense table, at once conveying that he was at ease but also ready for whatever may be coming his way. Dressed in a well-tailored dark blue suit with matching necktie, a pale blue shirt and pocket square, he spoke quietly nodding his head to his client, Britt Anderson. He squeezed her shoulder in a reassuring gesture, and flashed a quick smile. Britt Anderson, wearing a pale blue subtly pin striped suit and cream silk blouse that matched the color of her pale skin, stood projecting a peaceful demeanor uncommon for someone on trial for her life. Her thumb seemed to worry her wedding band, the single indication I could find that she was at all perturbed by her situation. The smile she reflected back to Mike was tired but unaffected. Neither one of them would have seen a moment's rest in the last sixteen hours. Mike would have spent the night pouring over boxes of legal briefs sent from Mrs. Anderson's previous representation, Will Schuester, and carefully preparing his case. I can't imagine Britt Anderson found Judge Sylvester firing her attorney a comforting start to the trail, but her smile didn't betray any misgivings and they both looked expectantly to the bench as the bailiff called for all to rise for Judge Sylvester.

Judge Sylvester motioned with her hand for everyone to sit and hit her gavel against the wooden base so hard that the bench along with everyone in the courtroom flinched in response. "Are we ready to get started?" Judge Sylvester asked looking in turn at both of the attorneys before her. Receiving a 'yes, Your Honor', from both, she asked the bailiff to bring in the jury. As the bailiff turned to leave she spoke to the attorneys again. "Let's make the opening statements brief. I want to get to the meat of things quickly with as little fanfare as possible. That may not sell many papers," she nodded her head towards Noah Puckerman, whom I now saw was seated across from me in the opposite balcony, "but I'd wager Mrs. Anderson would like to save the orchestration for her stage act. Understood?" both Mike and Israel nodded.

The bailiff reappeared and stood holding the door as the eighteen citizens of Metropolis that would be deciding Britt Anderson's fate slowly filed into the jurors' box clutching pencils and small ringed notepads. Their faces reflected young, old, man, and woman. All were pressed, starched, zipped, and buttoned into their Sunday finest, the degrees of finery giving a fair indication of the disposition of the wearer. They appeared to be an even cross-section of Metropolis, if not necessarily Mrs. Anderson's peers. Judge Sylvester, shifted back in her chair, lifted her chin, and peered at them through the bottom third of her reading glasses, her eternally arched eyebrow bobbing. Once the jury was seated, the bailiff swore them in, with Judge Sylvester adding a short reminder of the solemnity of the duty before them. After a few more words of business from Judge Sylvester, we began.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury," Israel started, "the State of New York intends to show beyond a shadow of a doubt that on the evening of July 15th 1947, Mr. Blaine Phillip Anderson was stabbed to death by his wife, Mrs. Brittany Pierce Anderson..." Israel paced back and forth in front of the jury box, alternating a sympathetic expression with a furrowed brow of concern. The jury listened with rapt attention, some jotting notes, all stealing judgmental glances at Britt Anderson over Israel's shoulder. I watched a phantom blush grow under her pale cheeks as point by point, Israel outlined a case that left little room for any verdict other than guilty. When Israel finished, he nodded, smiled satisfied at the jury, and returned to his seat.

Without allowing more than a beat for Israel's words to sink in, Mike Chang rose and stepped quietly in front of the jury. "Even if I was capable of such eloquent words," Mike nodded to a clearly pleased with himself Ben Israel, "they would not be needed here." Israel's smile faded. "When this trial is over my client, Brittany Anderson, will walk out of this courtroom a free woman. Simply, Brittany Anderson is not guilty."

When an attorney says 'simply', it's rare that he literally means it. The occupants of Metropolis Courtroom 19D did not move, taking deep breaths preparing for another twenty minutes of exposition on why Britt Anderson was now in fact, not guilty. I counted myself amongst the surprised as Mike turned his back on the jury, unbuttoned his jacket and sat down next to Mrs. Anderson. Fifty people raising their eyebrows in unison is worth seeing, I'd swear it made an audible squeak. Still no one moved unsure whether this was dramatic lawyering or the shortest opening statement in legal history. When Mike Chang smiled beatifically back at the bench, Judge Sylvester, eyed him through the bottom of her glasses, nodded her head slightly, and banged her gavel to confirm the end of opening arguments. Puckerman shot me a glance and shook his head as he scribbled in his notebook.

"Mr. Israel," Judge Sylvester began, "do you require a formal request to call your first witness?"

Israel shuffled a few papers and coughed before standing tugging nervously at his necktie. "Uh, the State calls Police Chief Finn Hudson to the stand."

Hudson jumped up, his brass buttons clanking against the wooden pew in front of him. He stood mouth slightly agape; cheeks flushed red, and an expression as blank as his dance card. Like a schoolboy he answered, "Here!"

Judge Sylvester sighed, "Excellent, now make 'here', 'there'." She pointed at the witness box.

"Your Honor," Hudson said as he moved. From overhead, I could fully appreciate the sheer purposeless pageantry of his uniform. The overdone padded shoulders, the pointlessly large brass buttons, and chest full of ribbons the color and variety of Christmas wrapping paper were meant to impress young children and small animals attracted to shiny things. I wondered if jurors fell into that category as well.

As Hudson was sworn in, I shifted sideways and settled in, resting my back against the arm of the wooden bench. Without thinking my hands moved to retrieve a cigarette from the case in my purse and I got as far as bringing one to my lips before I felt someone standing over me.

"Try this," Puckerman whispered, producing a torpedo shaped cigar with a burgundy and white ring around the end from his inside jacket pocket, "it'll last longer. You'll burn through your entire case if you smoke cigs." I wasn't a big fan of the smell, but Puckerman had traversed the length of the balcony just to increase my smoking pleasure, I could at least take a few puffs before switching back to cigarettes. Besides, Hudson was nothing if not long winded and when given a soapbox from which to expound on the heroics of the Metropolis Police, he definitely would. I whispered thanks and put away my cigarette case. Ever the gentleman, Puckerman pulled over an ashtray from the aisle, clipped the end of the cigar, and performed an elaborate lighting ritual before handing the sweet smelling stogie to me, eyebrows raised in anticipating of my first pull. I took a drag and immediately tried to conceal a cough with my hand so as not to disturb the entire courtroom. My eyes watered and Puckerman laughed. "You don't have to kill the whole thing in one draw. Take your time. Savor it." He winked and turned to walk back to across the balcony. As Puckerman retreated, I took a smaller pull on the cigar and smiled as flavors reminiscent of pepper, dark chocolate, and vanilla played across my tongue making merry with my taste buds. Puckerman beamed and winked at me from across the balcony. For some odd reason he took pleasure in introducing me to new vices. I took my first stinging mouthful of whiskey with Puckerman by my side. Half an hour later, I tapped out the last of the silver ash, pocketed the cigar band, and was looking forward to hitting Puckerman up for another stogie.

The combined monotone of Israel's questions and Hudson's replies could've been bottled and sold as the modern cure for insomnia. I understood the need to lay out the facts of the case for the jury, it was the molasses speed with which I had issue. As Israel and Hudson began to put in place the players, the man seated at the prosecution's table next to Israel produced a large white poster board with thick black lines depicting the physical layout of the Soirées Noires and the Anderson's respective dressing rooms. Lacking the expository skill of Noah Puckerman, Israel chose to recount the timeline using simple illustration. Despite the cartoon appearance of the club and dressing room with exaggeratedly simple stage, chaise, dressing table, and sink, I paused, seeing the scene for the first time since that fateful night.

Stick figures dressed in rectangle clothes were color-coded to represent the Noir Orchestra, black rectangles on stage; the waitstaff and bartenders, black rectangles off stage; and Blaine Anderson, a black rectangle with two rectangles representing his red tie and two circles his red eyeglasses. The maker of the stick figures was either blind or had neither seen nor heard of Britt Anderson, as she was represented like all the rest, a curveless red rectangle all that distinguished her from her husband and the rest of the men on stage. When I entered the narrative as a stick figure wearing an equally shapeless white rectangle, I was certain the maker had never seen a woman.

The testimony went like this: Israel asked Hudson a question, Hudson answered. Israel restated the question adding "is that correct?" to the end as his assistant moved the stick figures around the board accordingly. The jury seemed to appreciate a break from the dry storytelling and some smiled as the figures moved about the Soirées Noires nightclub according to Chief Hudson's narrative.

Israel stated, "And 10:15PM, was the last that anyone saw of Mr. Anderson alive except Miss Santana Lopez and Mrs. Anderson, is that correct?"

Before Hudson could reply in agreement Mike firmly stated, "Objection, Your Honor. 10:15PM, was the last that anyone Chief Hudson is _aware_ of saw Mr. Anderson."

"Your Honor," Israel interrupted, "we're merely presenting the _facts_." Israel emphasized the word 'facts' and raised his hands, palms up, in exasperation.

"Hudson?" Judge Sylvester barked more than asked, leaning forward so that Hudson could see her.

"Yes?" Hudson replied.

"Do you know for a fact that no one besides Mrs. Anderson or Miss Lopez saw Mr. Anderson alive after 10:15?"

"We haven't found anyone who says they did so-"

"Did you ask everyone?"

"Everyone we could," Hudson stated solemnly, lowering his head slightly, his forehead furrowing like a repentant puppy.

"So, that's a 'no'. Mr. Chang would then be correct in saying no one you are aware of saw Mr. Anderson alive after 10:15 except Miss Lopez and Mrs. Anderson," Judge Sylvester corrected.

"Point taken, Your Honor," Israel conceded. "Chief Hudson, there is no _evidence_ to suggest anyone saw Mr. Anderson alive after 10:15 except Miss Lopez and Mrs. Anderson, is _that_ correct?"

Hudson looked hesitantly at Mike Chang then Judge Sylvester as he replied, "That is correct. No evidence at all." He nodded and then shook his head a little too enthusiastically.

"And until Anna entered, the room was locked, both doors, locked, correct?"

"Correct," Hudson answered more sure of himself, a lopsided smile easing across his face.

With the three figures representing myself and the Andersons all in Mrs. Anderson's dressing room, Israel's assistant pinned two large blue paper locks on the cartoon doors. Israel continued to lead Hudson through the account of the scene from Anna, the cigarette girl, and the first officer to respond; Israel's assistant slowly moved the figures according to Hudson's descriptions. Hudson and Israel stopped speaking as Mr. Anderson's and my figure were laid sideways and Mrs. Anderson's figure remained standing, gifted a tiny silver paper knife. Without a word, the argument against Britt Anderson was made. The courtroom paused, all eyes flitting to Britt Anderson's face to gauge her reaction. Whether it was innate composure or strength of will, Mrs. Anderson stared unflinchingly at Israel and Hudson during the entire testimony, bending her head now and again to hear words whispered by Mike. I tried to read something in Mike's expression but he kept his head bent low, listening, and fiddling with something on the table.

I sighed, content in the knowledge that none of this information was new to me, thanks to Puckerman, but also disappointed that the glimmer of hope a small forgotten detail might bring was extinguished. My still churning gut told me Britt Anderson was innocent; my head couldn't get the numbers to add up to innocent no matter how many times I tried. I _wanted_ to believe her innocent. Despite the motto 'innocent until proven guilty', I wondered what the jury wanted to believe as they sat stone-faced looking between the morbid puppet theatrics that had played before them and Metropolis' very own infamous Mrs. Anderson.

Having drawn every piece of information from Hudson that would aid his case, Israel turned towards the prosecution's table. "Your witness," Israel said to Mike as he returned, satisfied to his seat.

Mike Chang rose and approached Chief Hudson. "Chief Hudson," Mike began, "thank you for laying out the timeline to the best of your ability for us." Unaccustomed to praise from the defense attorney, Hudson gave a mechanical nod of his head in acknowledgement. "Chief Hudson, is it your assertion that Mr. Anderson's assailant had to be one of the people in the room because when your officer discovered it the doors were locked?" Mike clasped his long arms behind his back and stepped closer to the witness box as he spoke in low gentle tones.

"Yes, because the doors were locked when the waitstaff broke in," Hudson replied. "They tried both doors first and then used a crowbar to open the door."

"Based on your theory, only three people were ever in the room, and either Miss Santana Lopez or my client would have to be the assailant. Chief Hudson, did you investigate Miss Lopez as a possible suspect?" Mike asked. He gestured towards me in the balcony with a sweep of his right hand.

I felt fifty pairs of eyes on me at once. Thankful that my tan skin didn't often give away a blush, I smiled weakly in return. I knew Mike had to raise the possibility that someone else should be suspected, I just hadn't expected to be skewered, have an apple shoved in my mouth, and tossed on the spitfire so unceremoniously. Puckerman's shoulders shook rhythmically under his suit jacket, betraying his silent laughter.

"Lopez?" Hudson let out a small incredulous laugh. He swatted his hand in the air indicating the idea was a waste of time.

"Chief Hudson, if you believed that one of the two people left alive in the room was Mr. Anderson's assailant, how could you in all good consciousness not investigate both of them?"

Hudson swallowed and looked first at Mike and then at me, surprised. I frowned down at Mike, mentally crossing him off my Christmas list. Hudson coughed and said, "Miss Lopez is a licensed private investigator in good standing with the Metropolis Police Department-"

"Mrs. Anderson is a very well known and successful entertainer in good standing with the Great Metropolis community," Mike interrupted, addressing the jury more than Hudson, "yet we're all here because the State believes she killed her husband. I'm trying to establish whether the State and police department actively and thoroughly pursued every lead before accusing Mrs. Anderson of the crime." Mike turned his back to Chief Hudson once more, walking front and center to the jury box. "Chief Hudson, did your department actively pursue an investigation of anyone _other_ than my client?"

Again, Hudson swallowed before answering, "No, we-"

"Thank you, Chief. Let the record show that Chief Hudson answered 'no' to the question as to whether any suspect other than my client was investigated," Mike stepped away from the jury box. Mike clasped his hands behind him as he crossed the room to the defense table, placing what looked like a few scraps of paper in his jacket pocket. "Do you know how many keys there were to the Anderson's dressing rooms?"

"I- I don't…at least two, his and hers. None of the staff had a key… or else they wouldn't have broken in," Hudson answered, somewhat defensively.

"As Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were both inside the locked dressing room, it seems that both keys should be found there as well. Was that the case?" Mike asked, his steady tone not changing as he stepped to the poster board and pinned to it two yellow paper skeleton keys.

"No. We only found one key," Hudson answered.

"And to whom did that key belong?" Mike asked standing with his back towards Hudson and smiling calmly at the jury.

"Mrs. Anderson. It was on a keychain with the key to her apartment and the key to the nightclub."

"So you did not find Mr. Anderson's key?" Mike asked turning his head to look at Chief Hudson. "Is that correct?" Mike moved one key to Mrs. Anderson's cartoon dresser.

"Correct," Hudson nodded, unsure of where this was leading.

"The prosecution would have us believe that Mr. Anderson's assailant had to be in the room when the doors were broken in by the waitstaff because the room was locked," Mike said walking to the poster board depicting the final state of the room. "However, one of at least two keys that we know about was missing. But is it possible, Chief Hudson, that someone, anyone, could have gained entry to the dressing rooms and locked the door on their way out?" Before Hudson could answer, Mike illustrated his point by pulling a stick figure cut from yellow legal pad out of his pocket. He placed the yellow key in its hand and moved it into the room. Mike removed the silver knife taped to Britt Anderson's stick figure hand and taped it to the fourth figure with the key. He slowly hovered it over Blaine Anderson's black and red stick figure, returning the knife to Mrs. Anderson's red figure. There was quiet murmur in the courtroom.

"Objection! Mr. Chang is altering evidence," Israel said rising from behind the prosecution's table.

"Stick figures aren't evidence. The prosecution presented their theory and I'm presenting an alternate theory," Mike replied.

"Your Honor?" Israel repeated.

"Calm down, Mr. Israel. The defense has just as much right to play dolly as you do. Overruled," Judge Sylvester retorted.

"Thank you, Your Honor. Is it possible that you didn't find Mr. Anderson's key because it left the room with one or more assailants?" He moved the figure to exit the room, the bright yellow key stuck to it hand.

"It's possible but-"

"Thank you, Chief Hudson," Mike quickly interrupted. "And did you search the dressing room, Chief Hudson?" Mike continued.

"Yes, we did."

"Did you find the second key?" Mike asked pointing towards the yellow stick figure pinned to the board still holding the key.

"We did not."

"At the Anderson apartment perhaps?"

"No. We didn't find the key anywhere."

"What do you think happened to the second key, Chief Hudson?" Mike asked, pointing at fourth figure on the posterboard.

"I don't- , we didn't find it. I don't know," Hudson replied.

"Correct me if I'm wrong then, since there's a key unaccounted for, it's possible that someone besides Mr. and Mrs. Anderson could have entered the locked dressing rooms, uninvited?" Mike touched the yellow stick finger with his index finger.

Chief Hudson paused, thinking, "Yes. It's possible."

"Then is it also possible that someone could leave the dressing rooms, locking the doors behind them with the missing key?" Mike asked thoughtfully, tapping the yellow stick figure with the knuckle of his index finger.

Chief Hudson glanced at Israel before answering, "Yes, it's possible."

"So Chief Hudson, is it reasonable to assume that the number of suspects increases substantially," Mike began to pin more small yellow stick figures to the poster board, stepping back when he'd added another twenty yellow stick figures to the drawing of Mrs. Anderson's dressing room, "when we consider that the whereabouts of the key to these locked doors is unknown?"

"It's possible," Hudson said looking down. The thought that his buttons were big enough and more than shiny enough to reflect his long face back at him crossed my mind.

"That's all for this witness, Your Honor," Mike unbuttoned his jacket, touched Britt Anderson's shoulder, and sat down. Britt Anderson's lips curved self-consciously.

I'd been around the courtroom enough to understand the power of suggestion. By introducing the fourth stick figure holding the key, Mike had artfully implied the presence of an unknown assailant who possessed the missing key to the Anderson dressing room. By adding the two dozen yellow figures, Mike made the police investigation look rushed and short-sighted. Each figured added to the shadow of doubt being cast on the State's case. Defense.

"Let's take a 45 minute recess for lunch. Mr. Israel, have your next witness ready, I'd like to get a good start before we end for the weekend," Judge Sylvester abused the wooden base beneath her gavel once again.

* * *

**IV**

I left the courthouse, turning around to walk to the back when I saw Puckerman out front recounting the morning's proceedings to his rival reporters as was the price of his admission to the closed court. I knew Puckerman would keep the juiciest details for his own article, but Judge Sylvester had mandated that he deliver the facts of the trial to the other reporters at least once a day. Despite the obvious rivalries between the Metro dailies, they were still colleagues and Puckerman was a watercooler politician who was always minding his connections.

I saw a group of wooden benches encircling a small grove of what looked like bamboo trees not far from a small Asian water garden complete with lotus flowers. As much as we'd lost in the war, there were small reminders of things gained. The short walk to the benches afforded me the welcome warm tickle of the sun, which was momentarily winning the fight for the grey September sky. I smiled, amused that Mike had made such a successful play with Israel's first witness. Although I hadn't shared my theory with anyone other than Tina, I was glad I wasn't the only one thinking a fourth person could have been in that room. The first glimmer came when Puckerman told me I'd been beaned with a crystal ashtray. I knew very well Britt Anderson didn't smoke or allow smoking in her pristine dressing room. But married couples have a surgical ability to needle each other's pet peeves though and Mr. Anderson may have decided to test Mrs. Anderson's patience with a cigarette in her sanctuary. Still, there was something else. My last coherent memories of that evening were stepping into the dressing room and seeing Blaine Anderson's body spilled across the chaise in the center of the room. Britt Anderson had called my name and I'd begun to turn when I was struck. Struck on the back of the head. I'd played the scene many times forward and backward trying to discern from which side Mrs. Anderson's voice had come. The side I'd been struck on or the opposite side? If I drafted her yet another check from the Bank of Benefit of the Doubt, she wouldn't be the one who hit me. I'd written her the check all right, I just hadn't signed it…yet.

I reached the benches and moved to the curve furthest away from two lawyers eating lunch and discussing something heatedly. The bamboo trees were perfect insulation from the sound, exactly what I needed as my head began to pound. Sitting, I tapped a cigarette on the top of my case, placed it against my lips and raised my lighter. A pink-nailed hand grasped my wrist, lifting my arm, and firmly guided the flame to a cigarette in a black holder held by the matching pink painted lips of Britt Anderson.

"Thank you," she said quietly, the crooked smirk I always seemed to elicit from her, playing across her lips. I don't know how many seconds I lost in those cool blue eyes of hers, but she broke the spell leaning back away from me and exhaling a silver cloud of smoke. "Surprised to see me?"

I stalled, returning to lighting my own cigarette, before answering. I looked down to return my lighter to my purse, and noticed the silver manacle and chain breaking up the view of her long legs. "Tiffany and Company, I assume?" I asked gesturing with my cigarette to her tether.

"Only the best," she said with a short hum of a laugh. "Would you mind sitting on this side?" she took a step backwards around the circle of the bench and trees. "I'm literally at the end of my rope," she chuckled and rattled the chain around her ankle to show she had very little slack between her leg and the chain running from one of the wrought iron armrests that divided the benches every few feet.

I stood and walked a quarter of the bench to sit down next to her. "Does everyone get a lunch hour in a forest paradise?" I glanced back at the courthouse and saw a police officer observing Mrs. Anderson and I through narrowed eyes.

"They didn't want me to smoke with the fellas," she pointed at a small screened in patio in which eight men in handcuffs puffed determinedly. "So I get my own guard and private retreat." She waved her hand to indicate the mini-bamboo forest.

"I see, well, I'll take your gratitude for the light to mean you don't mind the company," I waved at the police officer and turned back to Mrs. Anderson.

"The gratitude wasn't just for the light. It's for asking Mike Chang along yesterday. I don't know where I'd be today if you hadn't. Schuester was the only attorney who'd take my case without me signing over all my assets up front. Mike is- well, I'm glad you thought I might need the help. Thank you."

I nodded and took a drag of my cigarette. I don't know what had moved me to involve Mike, but I was second only to Britt Anderson in being glad I did.

"Not many people believe I'm innocent. Thank you." Mrs. Anderson sat leaning against the back of the bench. She started to cross her legs, but the clattering chain made the position awkward.

"I just wanted to be sure you had a fair shake." Offhandedly I added, "It'd be a different story if he'd been shot." I decided to broach the subject of the gun I'd found in her purse. I wanted to see if she'd lie to me, and I wanted to see if I'd believe her.

"It would? Why? What difference would that make?" She turned her entire body sideways to look at me as she spoke. "What makes you think I have a gun, Santana Lopez?" the words tumbled from her lips mockingly accompanied by a wisp of smoke.

"Nothing. Except for the fact that I know you do. I saw one in your purse. Next to your headache powders," I tried to be nonchalant in replying, relaxed as I turned to face her. She'd already taken a step out onto the ledge of lying to me, I was curious if she'd take the leap or come back in to safer ground.

"I-," Britt Anderson paused, I saw her jaw muscle tighten as she searched my face for what I don't know. She must have found what she was looking for because she relaxed and subtly shrugged, the movement of her body like a whisper under her silk blouse. I couldn't tell if she had something to hide or nothing to tell. "The gun was for protection, the threatening letters. I've never pointed it at anyone much less fired it."

"Shame, that means you have no idea how to use it."

She responded with a sarcastic, 'huh'. "Does Israel know? Is that why you're a prosecution witness?" She tilted her chin down, her blue eyes looking up at me through long dark lashes.

"I have no idea what Israel knows," I replied in all honesty.

"You must have told him something. Why would he call you as a witness otherwise?"

"Maybe I'm not talking loud enough, I said I haven't told him anything. I was the only other person in the room besides you. I'm a material witness. Despite the hole in my memory and the repaired hole in my head, Israel would be crazy _not_ to call me," I answered, feeling my temper simmer.

"And you'll tell him about me having a gun, won't you? I thought I could trust you," she said, blinking as if fighting back tears.

I tried to keep the tone out of my voice. "Having a gun is only a problem if someone shows up dead with a hole in them, Mrs. Anderson. And don't start with the trust routine. You don't trust me, not one bit. You don't have to, you're pretty damned sure I trust you," I stood, my head buzzing like a beehive from the anger and a now piercing headache.

"Stop it! Stop it right now! I didn't kill him! He was stabbed, not shot!" Britt Anderson stood as well, raising her voice to the alarm of the police officer assigned her who began to walk slowly towards us. "How can you talk to me like that?"

"Practice," I tossed my cigarette into the grass and walked back to the courthouse, "practice."

* * *

**V**

I waited until the last moment to take my seat in the balcony of the courtroom. I'd hoped to switch places with Puckerman and sit where Britt Anderson wouldn't be the center of my field of vision. But when I reached the top step to the balcony, Puckerman was already seated, puffing on a cigar and flipping pages in his notebook. I stepped back into the stairwell and waited to take my seat until Judge Sylvester had entered and Israel's next witness, Dr. Gilbert Grissom, the coroner and forensic consultant to the Metropolis police, had been sworn in.

Israel walked through Grissom's education and titles, explaining to the jury that Grissom's job was to understand the varied and sordid ways people bid farewell to this life. Grissom had a reputation for being extraordinarily erudite, but often ill-equipped, or perhaps just too impatient, to explain his work to those of us less gifted. Whenever I had time, I tried to attend court when he might testify on an especially difficult to solve case. Despite his social ineptitude, I appreciated the creativity of his work and learned a great deal from him. Grissom sat in green shirt, a carelessly knotted necktie, and an over-sized plaid tweed jacket with patched elbows, attire much more suited for a classroom than Judge Sylvester's court. Adding to his air of academia were horn-rimmed glasses and an owlish salt and pepper-colored beard, which he stroked absently.

"Dr. Grissom, you examined the body of Mr. Blaine Anderson when it was brought to the morgue on the 16th of July this year, is that correct?" Israel asked, still seated at the prosecution's table.

"No," A lawyer's dream or worst nightmare, Grissom answered only questions he was asked and rarely added commentary to his answers unprovoked.

Israel stood and looked frantically at his notes. "Dr. Grissom, did you not sign off on the death certificate and insurance papers confirming Blaine Anderson's death? You did that without examining the body?"

"I signed the documents, yes. I did not examine the body, I was on vacation in July, flyfishing." I was startled to see Grissom offer a smile. "I read the report of the interim coroner, Dr. Tanaka."

Israel sighed, "Do you feel you can comment on the report, Dr. Grissom?"

"Dr. Tanaka is an accomplished pathologist, I wouldn't have asked him to fill in if I didn't trust him implicitly."

"Very well. Dr. Grissom, how did Blaine Anderson die?" Israel asked, standing between Grissom and the jury.

"A lack of oxygen to his brain," Grissom answered, pushing his glasses up on his nose and nodding.

"A lack of- ," Israel, walked quickly back to his notes and held up the report. "Dr. Grissom, the report says he was stabbed not choked or suffocated," Israel was clearly concerned that Grissom was confusing the jury. I glanced up and saw Puckerman frowning and erasing something in his notes.

"That's correct. He was stabbed, he lost approximately 6 quarts of blood," Grissom didn't seem to notice or care about the jury members who covered the mouths or who's faces took on an ashen color. "No blood means no oxygen to the brain. The brain controls autonomic functions like breathing and heart rate. No oxygen to the brain no breathing, which sounds like an oxymoron…He died due to lack of oxygen."

Israel looked annoyed and repeated, "Blaine Anderson was stabbed to death, correct?"

"Yes," Grissom removed his glasses and placed them on the small shelf in front of him in the witness box.

Israel pulled out a small stack of black and white photos and after announcing them as exhibits B 1 through 25, handed the stack to Grissom. "Dr. Grissom, can you verify that these are the photos taken at the scene?"

"No." Grissom shook his head, taking the photos from Israel and fanning them quickly in front of himself.

"Dr. Grissom? These aren't the photos of the scene?"

"These photos are consistent with the description of the scene from the police report and the description of the body from Dr. Tanaka's report, but I can't verify that they're photos from the scene. I wasn't there."

Israel asked Judge Sylvester to stipulate in the record that the photos he'd handed Grissom were official police photographs and were in fact taken at the scene. Grissom seemed uninterested and continued to leaf through them.

"According to the report, the assailant is right handed and somewhere between five and a half and six feet tall," Israel paused looking at Grissom. Grissom returned Israel's gaze but said nothing. Israel coughed and smiled more broadly at Grissom raising his eyebrows. Grissom smiled uncomfortably in return. "Dr. Grissom?"

"Yes?"

"Your answer, please?"

"What was the question? I didn't hear a question," Grissom frowned.

Israel sighed and smiled, trying poorly to keep his exasperation from being obvious. "Dr. Grissom, the report says the assailant was between five feet six and six feet tall, is that correct?"

"Yes," Grissom answered, his brows furrowing again equally frustrated with Israel.

"Is it true that you can tell the height of the assailant with good accuracy based on what you see in the photos? Photos like this one?" Israel held up a black and white photo in which a white shirt soaked in blood, had been pushed open to reveal inch long dark lines on a very pale torso, the ribs of the victim easily visible.

Several women in the jury box gasped and looked away. The male jurors held up hands to block their own vision of the photos and frowned. My eyes shot to Britt Anderson. She'd quickly tilted her head away from the photo, her eyes downcast. I don't know what reaction I was looking for, but the one I saw seemed much too subtle. Mrs. Anderson must have felt my eyes upon her as she turned her head to look directly at me, her eyes brimming with tears. I was torn between the instinct want to protect her and the urge to clap at the performance.

Mike stood, and shouted, "Objection! Your Honor, is that necessary?" Judge Sylvester, hit her gavel and called both attorneys to the bench. As the three of them chatted, Grissom continued to flip through the photographs, oblivious to anything else happening around him. From the corner of my eye, I saw Grissom's head tilt to the side and he replaced his glasses on his nose. He held a photo taken from the vantage point of Mrs. Anderson's dresser showing the crumpled body on the floor, the blood soaked floor, and the door leading to Mr. Anderson's dressing room. Grissom squinted and pulled the photo so close to his face it was touching his nose. The two attorneys and Sylvester were still discussing an arms length away. Suddenly Grissom stood up bolt straight, knocking the chair he'd been sitting in over behind him.

"Your honor, I need to go…we need to…" Grissom stuttered, not taking his eyes off the photograph in his hand. He moved towards the small swinging panel of the witness box to leave.

"Grissom!" Judge Sylvester called, "where do you think you're going? You haven't been dismissed. Sit down!"

"Your honor, we… I need to go…" Grissom pushed open the waist high gate to the witness box.

"Shane!" Sylvester called, causing the bailiff to step to the witness box and block Grissom's exit. Both attorneys stood staring at Grissom. "Grissom, come here!" Judge Sylvester, slid her dark red chair to the edge of the bench, tapped the edge closest to the witness box with her finger, and thinned her lips into an angry pink line. Grissom snatched his hand back from the gate and stepped backwards towards the judge as Shane leaned in closer. Grissom turned his head to Sylvester and the two exchanged words for a few minutes before a very displeased Sylvester nearly threw her gavel at the bench, stood up and left through the door behind her chair, yelling "Recess until Monday!" over her shoulder.

Only Grissom felt safe to move, and he coughed as request for Shane to back away from his exit. He pushed open the wood gate and hurriedly left the courtroom. Israel threw both hands up in the air and walked back to the prosecution's table shaking his head violently. The bailiff moved quickly to exit the jurors and soon Mike Chang and Britt Anderson were alone in the circus ring of courtroom 19D.

* * *

**A/N: I'd say I hate to leave you hanging, but you know that I absolutely _love_ leaving you hanging! Haha! **

**Thank you, NEMO, Blueashke, Nayshen, & Snixx. Big thanks to every single reviewer and reader. You don't know how happy it makes me to see the reviews.  
**

**To my best champion- Foss- thank you so much! I love you.  
**


	6. Chapter 4 Parts VIthruVIII

**Soirées Noires: A San Spade Detective Story**

**Chapter 4**

**July 1947**

**VI **

I burst through the front door of the office, taking Tina so offguard she let out a surprised "Oh!"

'Tina, who do we know down at the coroner's office? Any friends who can help us out? I need to know what piqued Grissom in court today." I quickly recounted the last few minutes of the Anderson trial for Tina and she began dialing immediately.

I strode to my office and called Puckerman. Before the rest of us had a chance to close our mouths after Grissom's disruption of court and Sylvester storming out, Puckerman had disappeared from the courtroom. As most of his reporter pals were expecting court to let out at 3 or 4PM, no one was waiting for him as he ran out of the courtroom into the nearest phone booth to call his office. I saw him ranting madly into the phone as I left.

"Puckerman." The voice on the phone answered somewhat annoyed.

"It's me, Noah. What happened with Grissom?"

"Oh, hi. That's the hundred thousand dollar question, Lopez. You and every reporter in Metropolis is trying to figure that out. Or they will be when I tell them what happened, _after_ the evening edition hits the stands," he chuckled. I could hear the scrape of his lighter flint and hear the intake of breath as he lit up a cigarette. "You heard anything?"

"Nothing. Do me a favor? Let me know what's going on before I read it on the front page?" I asked. Puckerman said he would and I sat down at my desk reaching instinctively for the bottle of rye whiskey in my drawer, and twisting the top off with the one hand. I'd just set a shot glass on my desk when Tina walked back in, giving me a mildly disapproving look as she saw the glass.

"It's not even 3 o'clock yet. Do you really need that?" Tina said, pointing at the bottle in my hand with her notepad.

"I'm very competitive Tina," I smiled knocking back the first shot as I poured a second, smiling at her, "there's rummies who've been drinking since 10."

Tina shook her head, begrudgingly giving me a smile. "There's definitely something happening down at the morgue right now. My contact said Grissom's office has the State's Attorney on conference call. She heard the word 'exhume' but that's all she knows right now. It's Friday and they're all trying to leave before Grissom can ask them to stay."

"Exhume, Blaine Anderson's body?" I asked, more thinking out loud than asking Tina a question. "What could he have seen in a photograph that would make him want to dig up a body that's been buried for nearly 2 months?" Tina shrugged. I stood and looked out the window, lighting a cigarette. "I need to see those photos. Think you can charm Hudson into letting me see the negatives?" I laughed turning back towards Tina and leaning against the windowsill.

"How about I ask him to make you a special deputy and issue you a badge, too?" Tina said sitting down in the chair in front of my desk and reaching for the shotglass and whiskey.

I chuckled, "It's times like these I wish I was a little nicer to Hudsy." I produced another shotglass from my drawer and slid it across the desk to Tina, taking the one she'd just filled. We sat in silence for a few minutes while we both drank and I blew smoke overhead. "Tina," I said standing up and walking towards the door, "can you get changed for dinner? I'll pick you up in two hours." I walked to the closet in Artie's office, the first time I'd breached the threshold since the day after he was shot. I pulled out a small bag and retrieved a silver and black TOKO camera small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.

Tina had followed me and stood in the doorway, almost hesitating to come in. "I can be ready. Why are you taking the camera?"

I sprinted past her to the hallway hoping to make the camera shop for film before they closed for the weekend. I'd gotten down the first dozen stairs before I backed up and leaned into the front office doorway. Tina, putting the cover on her Underwood typewriter, again looked startled to see me.

"Thank you, Tina," I smiled and waited for the beam of sunshine that was Tina's smile before I ran downstairs to hail a cab.

* * *

**VII**

A petite young girl with straight blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes stepped up to the table where Tina and I sat overlooking the stage at Soirées Noires. I'd requested a table as close to the stage as possible. Closer to the stage meant closer to my target of the backstage dressing rooms.

"Welcome to the Soirées Noires, I'm Lauren, I'll be your waitress tonight. May I start you with a drink?" My ears pricked up at the sound of an accent reminiscent of the New Jersey shores. I thought I'd been subtle in glancing down at her legs, when I felt Tina kick me from under the table.

"Yes! Please get her a drink right away. Make it a double. I'll have gimlet, please," I replied, stroking my shin through the dark fabric of my burgundy pencil skirt. Topped by a pearl colored wrap blouse, my outfit was just dressy enough to not stand out in the sea of cocktail dresses I saw twirling around the dancefloor below. After the reception I'd gotten on my last visit, I'd decided to spare myself the plucking and primping. Tina was radiant in a red and white floral print cocktail dress, her lipstick and a barrette that held back her chignon, all in matching shade of red that complimented her skin beautifully.

"I'll have a Manhattan," Tina replied to the waitress, before shifting her chair sideways to get a better view of the dance floor. "Can you give me a few minutes to soak this all in before you do whatever it is you're going to do?" Tina said smiling as she watched the dancers twirl, swaying her shoulders in time.

"Yes, dear, enjoy," I said as the lights dimmed and a woman in a silver sequined gown, silver heels and matching clanking silver bracelets and earrings stepped onto the stage. The Noire Orchestra filled in behind her and she stepped into the spotlight surrounding the microphone at the front of the stage, blinding the room with the reflection off her clothes and jewelry.

I looked at the nametag of our waitress as she returned, setting Tina and my Christmas colored drinks on the table. "Thank you, Lauren. Excuse me," I said, putting a hand on her arm before she could disappear, "could you tell me who that is on stage?"

Lauren squatted gracefully next to the table so as not to block the view of tables behind us. "That's Sugar Motta. She's a friend of Mrs. Anderson."

"She's a singer?" I asked, looking back to the stage as Miss Motta introduced the Noir Orchestra.

Lauren chuckled and replied, "She's no singer. I'd advise you to try and get through your main course before she starts." Lauren smiled and stood again.

"Are steaks okay, Tina?" I asked and Tina nodded absently enthralled by the stage. "Two steaks rare, please," I said and winked at Lauren before she walked away.

Miss Motta finished with the horns section of the orchestra and then turned back to the stage. "Ladies and Gents, I have a special treat for you tonight, a group of gals who worked together at the Mars Candy factory during the war have made it big singing. Give a big hand for the Snicker Sisters!" As she spoke, four women dressed in pink damask dresses with full skirts and v-shaped necklines entered from the side stage smiling, hands folded in front of them. Of varying heights and ranging in haircolor from black to auburn to red, it wasn't until they stepped closer to centerstage that I noticed the letters 'M', 'A', 'J', and 'K' embroidered on the bodice of their dresses.

I listened for a moment as they launched into a cover of the Andrews Sisters song "Rum and Coca-Cola". I tuned out and began watching the room for the best time to try and make my move to backstage. As the Snicker Sisters began their second song, I touched Tina's shoulder and motioned that I would be back.

It didn't take much effort to slip backstage without being challenged. Members of the Orchestra that weren't onstage were too busy smoking or playing craps in the hallway behind the stage to pay attention to me. The chorus girls were limbering up, applying make-up, and chattering noisily in their large dressing at the opposite end of the hall from the Andersons dressing room. I walked quickly to the doorway of Mr. Anderson's dressing room and stepped inside after just pushing at the door, the doorjamb still shredded from the break in months ago. Looking back over my shoulder to see if I was being observed or followed, I waited a beat, and turned into the room.

Mrs. Anderson's stark white dressing room couldn't have been more opposite the warm almost homey atmosphere of Mr. Anderson's room. A Tiffany lampshade sat on the dressing table along with a neatly lined up tortoise shell hair comb, and two tiny metal combs, for his mustache or eyebrows, I wasn't sure which. His dressing table was a mahogany colored wood the color of a good rye whiskey, and had four bare light bulbs around the outside of its large mirror. Just as in Mrs. Anderson's room, there was a small sink near the door and a folding screen in the back of the room behind which he could change clothes. A hanger with four red bow ties hung from the small hook on the front of the screen. There was a small table with three dark leather club chairs, atop a richly colored oriental rug in the center of the room where Mrs. Anderson's chaise would have been. As I touched the leather of the club chair, I was startled by my reflection in Britt Anderson's dressing table mirror about 15 feet away through the doorway.

I held my breath as I stepped through the second broken door that connected the Anderson's dressing rooms. The room smelled strongly of bleach, it must have taken quite a bit of effort to remove the blood and accompanying smell. The plush white rug and white chaise were gone, the bare wood floor in the center of the room now visible. I was being silly, but the temperature seemed to drop just taking a few steps into the room. The sound of laughter in the hallway reminded me that I needed to be quick and I stepped with my back to the dressing table, taking several quick photographs from various angles, hoping to find the shot that would show me what Grissom had seen in the police photo. I took a few more pictures of the rest of the room and then walked back towards Mr. Anderson's room to exit.

Passing the threshold, my eyes swept over the damage the crowbar had done to the door. There were small slashes in the wood jamb that framed the door in a thick white border of several inches. The slices through the paint to the lightly tan-pink wood underneath looked like wounded flesh. I saw two small round wounds at just below waist height and I leaned down to examine them. They were just big enough for the tip of my pinky to fit into them. Flicking off the light in both rooms, I fumbled in the dark to swap the camera lens with the body cap and turned the lights back up. Using the lens as a magnifying glass, I examined the holes, chuckling to myself that Sherlock Holmes would have been proud. There was a trace of black around each hole that rubbed off on my fingers. I flicked the lights off again, replaced the camera lens and took several close-up pictures, before stepping back across the room to the dressing table. The new vantage point revealed three more holes near the baseboard next to the door, bullet holes. Grissom had noticed bullet holes in the photograph. I snapped several more pictures, tucked the camera back into my pocket and stepped out into the hallway.

I heard applause and knew I should be getting back to Tina out front. The air felt stale and heavy, I was more than ready to leave. Mike's claim that anyone could have come into and out of the Andersons' dressing room that night made me wonder how easy it would have been to leave without being seen. I took a few steps towards the chorus girls dressing room and felt a small breeze coming from behind a dark curtain. Brushing the curtain aside, I saw a double door propped open with a brick that lead outside. Looking back to the dressing room doorway, it wasn't even ten feet away. I peered out the door and saw our waitress, Lauren leaning over a railing that leads to three steps down to the alleyway.

"Is there where you go to escape Miss Motta's singing?" I said stepping fully through the door and up next to Lauren. She jumped and turned to face me, a cigarette between her lips and tumbler of amber colored liquor in her hand.

"Haha!" she laughed, "This isn't far enough away. You just wait, she should be starting any minute now. What are you doing back here? Your steaks were delivered ten minutes ago. Was there something wrong?" Without waiting me to answer, she continued, "Damn that Holly, she was supposed to be covering for me!" The cigarette in her mouth waggled as she spoke.

I leaned against the balcony next to her, the crisp autumn air quickly diluting the smell of bleach that clung to me. I took a deep breath and lit my own cigarette. "No," I said, appreciating the calm of my cigarette after the chill of being in the dressing room again, "everything was fine. I just wanted to take a look backstage." I glanced over at her taking a sip of her drink. She seemed unconcerned about my presence as long as it wasn't related to her service. "Actually, I'm a detective and I'm just following up on a lead." Most people hear the word 'detective' and automatically think I work for the police. Most of the time it isn't in my interest to explain their error. "How has the Soirées Noires been doing since…the incident."

"Fine," Lauren offered. "If anything, business is better, people get a kick out of eating someplace someone's been murdered or something sick like that. Did you miss something? There was a group in earlier." She held her tumbler out, offering me a bit of her drink, but I shook my head and took another drag of my cigarette.

"Just double checking," I wasn't surprised Grissom's group had been here already, "we wouldn't want to miss anything." Wouldn't want to miss anything _again_, I thought. Changing subjects I asked, "What was Mr. Anderson like?"

"Mr. Anderson? He was a really classy guy, but he'd started drinking a lot in the last few months…" her voice trailed off.

"Alcohol dissolves class," I offered.

"Yeah, he and Sebastian would stay after shows and drink and argue for hours. Eventually, Mr. Anderson let him go," Lauren replied taking a last draw in her cigarettes before flicking it into a sand- and butt-filled bucket at our feet. I offered her another and lit it for her, the lighter flame reflecting eerily in her pale eyes.

"Who's Sebastian?" I knew the most basic answer, but was hoping some shading from an insider might make the sketch more realistic.

"Sebastian Anderson, Mr. Anderson's cousin."

"I see, bet you got an earful of those when we were young stories, huh?"

"Don't remember any of those. But I know they used to work together as Pullman porters on the Super Chief. When they'd drink they'd tell us all stories about the stars and gangsters they'd met," Lauren answered.

The Super Chief was a passenger steamliner train that made daily runs from Los Angeles to Chicago and New York. The air-conditioned compartments, gourmet meals, and frequent Hollywood passenger list gave the train a certain mystique no other line had been able to match. Even the lowest fare compartments were luxurious compared to other passenger trains, meaning the average joe could buy a little piece of snob appeal of their very own. After the rationing and sacrifice of the war, Super Chief was a welcome reversal. Warm weather places like California and Nevada beginning to blossom and drew the attention of people looking to avoid the scrutiny of the police out East. Rumor had it money and goods moved from New York to Chicago to the West Coast on the Super Chief virtually unnoticed. Soon names linked with organized crime, like Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky were regulars who added to the Super Chief allure. Who wanted to fly when you could rub elbows with Bogart, Bacall, and Bugsy?

"But they fought a lot? About what?"

"I don't know, they were drinking so I didn't pay much attention, you know?" Lauren said shrugging.

"How were the Anderson's getting along before this happened? I'd heard rumors…"

"They fought, for sure, but that's called marriage isn't it?" Lauren sighed as she looked out into the alleyway. "Mr. Anderson was planning a big surprise for her though, that night it happened."

"Really?" I prompted when she paused to take a drink. "What kind of surprise?"

"Dunno, I was out here before the first show and he was pulling a steamer trunk up the steps. Asked me to hold the door."

"A trip?" I asked.

"I guess." As she spoke, the door was thrown open and the Snicker Sisters came barreling outside laughing.

"Hi!" 'A' , the auburn haired songstress said, waving.

Lauren and I both waved back.

"Mind if we join you?" 'K', the darker haired, asked, producing a flask from somewhere in her bustier.

The long lashed 'M', stepped up to the rail and leaned back against it. "I've got some cigarettes. Wanna try?" She reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out four spindle shaped rolled cigarettes.

"Borrow your lighter?" the red haired 'J' asked Lauren, who handed over her lighter, smiling as she watched the four women lighting up. I stepped back into the doorway, giggles rising behind me, wondering whether Holly was going to have to cover the rest of the night for Lauren.

"Ready to go?" I asked as I stood next to Tina at the table. I saw she'd had the dinners wrapped up in matching foil swans and was staring with a look of horror at the stage.

"Yes, please!" Tina said standing and walking ahead of me.

I took the two tin foil swans and followed her, stopping momentarily to locate the out of tune saxophone player that was mistreating a Charlie Parker tune. I was startled to see the sound was coming from Miss Motta scatting the song to the dismay of the audience and Orchestra alike.

We had the cab drop us off at the office so that I could return the camera to Artie's closet and Tina could have the film to drop off on her way into work on Monday morning. Tina called for two cabs and we walked back down the stairs after locking up the office for the night.

"Were you okay going back in there?" Tina asked. I knew she'd been watching me anxiously since we'd left the nightclub and had honestly hoped she'd just let me go without questioning.

"It was a strange feeling," I replied.

"Do you think you figured out what Grissom saw in the photos?" Tina asked, frowning at me concerned.

"Bullet holes in the wall. I think Blaine was shot," I answered, seeing the headlights of the first cab turn onto our street.

"Well, that's great isn't it? They thought she stabbed him, but he was shot. That's perfect!" Tina paused seeing that I didn't seem excited by the new information. "Right? That mean's she's innocent."

Tina's cab pulled up before I had to answer and I kissed Tina on the cheek before waving good night.

Now the gun I'd found in Britt Anderson's purse had gone from a troubling thought to a legitimate issue. If exhuming the body showed that Blaine was shot, Britt Anderson could be the killer. If she was, why stab him too? If she wasn't why make it look like she was? Whoever did it clearly escaped without a trace, why frame Britt Anderson?

I shielded my eyes from the headlights of the cab approaching as it came to a stop in front of me. I gave my address and leaned back in the seat, massaging my temples. I wish I hadn't found that damn gun. A Metropolis Memorial ambulance flew by in the opposite direction and my thoughts went to Artie. Artie was shot, the same night, working the same case. I closed my eyes and hoped the dark cool of my tomb apartment would quiet my mind enough to let me sleep.

* * *

**VIII**

The weekend came and went, Saturday blurred into Sunday and before I knew it I was leaving the Justice Diner headed to Judge Sylvester's courtroom again. Grapefruit and a cup of coffee probably weren't the best thing for the perpetual gnawing in my stomach, but I didn't have the time or inclination for anything else. In the few hours before court reconvened, Tina had reached out to every connection she had at Grissom's office, but even to Tina's wily ways, the place was sealed up tighter than a drum. If the coroner changed his opinion, there'd be a lot of pink slip confetti to rival the end of the war floating around the State's Attorney's office. I winced imagining the fallout in Police Chief Hudson's office. As much as Hudson wasn't my favorite brand of anything, he was predictable and, for the most part, good-natured. We may not have liked each other, but we understood each other and largely stayed out of each other's way. Better the devil you know.

Again I waited until Judge Sylvester was in residence and Grissom was being sworn in before I took a seat in the balcony. I'd wanted to avoid Puckerman, whom I knew would be anxious for any lead and willing to do almost anything for it. There hadn't been any six point screamer headlines with his byline since Friday, so I assumed he didn't know about the bullet holes. I slid into the wooden bench on the jury side of the courtroom and waved to him across the way. He raised his eyebrows as if to say 'anything?'. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. Grissom would tell us what he'd found in a few minutes. I rationalized I wasn't really keeping anything from Puckerman since I had no way to confirm anything. I wouldn't have my chance to look closely until this afternoon when Tina picked up the photos from the camera shop. I was sure they were bullet holes, but maybe they were old and Grissom was shaken up by something else in the photos. I wouldn't bet even Hudson's brass buttons that I was wrong, but it _was_ possible. Anything was possible. Even Britt Anderson being innocent was possible.

I leaned towards the rail and looked over at the defense table. Mike was in a well-tailored charcoal grey suit, the pencil he twirled between his fingers a yellow blur. He looked around the courtroom as Grissom was sworn in again and finding me, mouthed "you're next". I nodded my head in return. Looking down at my ankle length plaid culottes, I hoped they looked sufficiently more like a skirt at a glance than pants, at least to Judge Sylvester. I had the right to dress as I pleased given that I'd be called to testify today and may have to provide evidence to Britt Anderson's guilt. Signing death warrants is uncomfortable business.

As much as I didn't want to look at Britt Anderson today, my eyes moved to her of their own volition. Given the general landscape of the courtroom, I couldn't blame them. She was polished and poised in a tasteful brown and white checked two-piece suit. Her hair was neatly pinned up, her turned under bangs giving her blue eyes privacy with just a small tilt of her head. No doubt both Schuester and Mike had stressed to her the importance of her wardrobe given the sensational press before the trial. She needed to look equally well prepared to stand trial for her life or plan the church picnic if she was to erase the wild picture the jurors had painted too vividly in their minds by the Metro dailies. I watched her chatting with Mike, smiling demurely. Still something seemed out of place, yet from golden head to well shod toe, it wasn't obvious at first glance. I was about to chalk it up to those something from nothing tricks your mind plays on you when you exchange gin for sleep, when I saw it. Her worry showed; the repeated tensing of her jaw marking the seconds on the clock. There was warm blood behind those cool blue eyes after all.

Israel coughed, addressed the jury with a 'Good morning', then stepped to the side of the witness box, where Dr. Grissom sat looking more disheveled than usual. "Dr. Grissom, good morning," he said. Grissom winced a smile. "Would you mind telling us what happened last Friday?" Israel said turning his back on Grissom and walking towards the jury box.

"Could you be more specific?" Grissom replied, oblivious to the snickers from the jury box.

"Dr. Grissom, why did you rush out of the courtroom on Friday afternoon?" Israel sighed, pushing up his glasses, placing two fingers on either side of the bridge of his nose, and rubbing gently as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Ah, yes. When I examined the crime scene photos, I noticed something we'd overlooked that could have been pivotal to this case," Grissom replied looking genuinely ashamed.

"Could you explain what happened this weekend in regards to your discovery, Dr. Grissom?" Israel asked, beginning to master the art of questioning Grissom.

"Certainly. This weekend, we established that the original cause of death stated for Blaine Anderson was incorrect," Grissom paused, looking down at his hands, embarrassed. I glanced at Britt Anderson, who stared stoically ahead; she made no movement nor did Mike react to the information. Israel would have been legally obligated to inform Mike of Grissom's findings as soon as his office found out. She would already know what Grissom was about to say. My eyes were fixed on her, watching for some reason to believe my gut's assertion that she was still innocent.

"What do you now believe was the cause of death, Dr. Grissom?" Israel folded his arms behind him and paused his pacing in front of the witness box.

"Blaine Anderson was shot multiple times, which resulted in his death," Dr. Grissom stated simply. Eyes wide, members of the jury looked between each other, Grissom and Israel. Judge Sylvester tapped her gavel to silence the low murmur.

With the slightest movement of her honeyed head, Britt Anderson looked up, returning my gaze. Her eyes were blue summer skies threatening a thunderstorm, darkly fierce but pleading. I wanted to say something, something that would make sense to either of us at this moment. But I didn't know what would make this better and she wouldn't hear my cheap philosophy across the courtroom anyway. She turned away, her full attention returning to some spot on the wall in front of her. My eyes did not leave her as Israel guided Grissom through detailing his findings.

Grissom described exhuming and x-raying Blaine Anderson's body to look for the bullet fragments responsible for the holes in the door jamb and baseboards. He produced shiny black x-ray films showing bright white bullet fragments lodged in the ghostly shadows of Mr. Anderson's ankle and hip. He explained that the entry and exit wounds for the bullets were intentionally obscured by the knife wounds. Puckerman had mentioned to me that the knife had been twisted in the wounds, at the time, the police attributed it to matrimonial malevolence not guile. Grissom pointed out that at least five of the knife wounds corresponded with bullet exit wounds. Israel asked if Blaine Anderson had been shot _and_ stabbed, how could Grissom say with certainty which came first and which was the true cause of death. Grissom explained if the victim had been shot second, the gunner would have been an excellent shot to precisely line up the point of entry and angle of the stab wounds, a near impossible shot once, much less five times in a row. The second possibility was that the shooter was very very close to Mr. Anderson. Israel suggested that Mr. Anderson might let his wife get that close to him. Grissom dismissed the idea saying that given the lack of gunpowder burns that would have been evident if Anderson were shot with the barrel literally touching him, he was confident that the gun wounds had occurred first.

After more than an hour of explanation, Israel seemed satisfied and concluded with, "Dr. Grissom, given this new information, is there any reason to suspect that Blaine Anderson wasn't murdered?"

Grissom laughed aloud, surprising everyone, including himself. "I'm sorry, but it's highly improbable that Mr. Anderson would physically be able to shoot himself five times in those locations and remain conscious. He was murdered. That hasn't changed," Grissom replied looking over the top of his glasses nearly in perfect imitation of Judge Sylvester.

"Thank you, Dr. Grissom. Your witness," Israel replied returning to his seat.

Mike Chang rose and approached the stand. "First, Dr. Grissom, I'd like to thank you and applaud you for having the courage to re-examine the case and reach a new conclusion. You may have saved my client's life," Mike said. Almost instantly, Israel raised an objection. "Withdrawn," Mike replied before Judge Sylvester could rule. In practice, Judge Sylvester should have asked the jury to disregard Mike's comment, but knowing the impossibility of unhearing something, she waggled a half-heartedly disapproving finger at Mike without taking her eyes off of Grissom.

"Dr. Grissom, was the murderer carrying a gun or a knife?" Mike asked.

"Excuse me?" Grissom replied, looking at Mike over the top of his glasses.

"Was Mr. Anderson killed with a gun or a knife?"

"A gun, most definitely he was killed with a gun," Dr. Grissom replied.

"Did the knife wounds contribute to his death?"

"In my opinion, no," Grissom replied.

"Do you see any reason for the murder to shoot Mr. Anderson, stab him, and then stay in the room holding the knife?"

"Objection!" Israel jumped to his feet. "Dr. Grissom is not qualified to comment on the state of mind of the killer."

"Your Honor, Dr. Grissom is a very well recognized criminologist; one of the top experts on the criminal mindset in the country - according to Mr. Israel's own introduction. If he's not fit to give his expert opinion, who is?"

Judge Sylvester held up a hand to halt the protest about to spill from Israel's lips. "Dr. Grissom, do you feel qualified to answer the question?" Judge Sylvester asked, giving him a stern eyebrow and glare over the top of her glasses which Grissom returned looking over the top of his own spectacles, bringing to mind two owls inspecting one another.

"I'd be giving a learned opinion. An opinion that could be challenged, but… yes, I am quite qualified," Grissom replied, looking back at Mike.

"Overruled. Dr. Grissom you may answer the question," Judge Sylvester said, leaning back to rock in her throne-like chair.

"Thank you, Your Honor. Dr. Grissom, let me restate the question. Do you think that the same person who shot Mr. Anderson stabbed him as well?" Mike asked thoughtfully.

"I do, yes," Dr. Grissom replied steadily.

"Because you believe the murderer was trying to hide the bullet wounds by stabbing him, correct?" Mike added.

"That's correct," Dr. Grissom replied.

"Why do you think the murderer did that?"

"There may be a number of reasons not apparent to any…"

"Excuse me, Dr. Grissom, I'm asking for your expert opinion here. What do you believe is the most likely reason?" Mike redirected.

"Most likely reason?" Grissom paused and pushed his glasses up on his nose, knitting his eyebrows in a frown. I leaned forward once again hoping the answer Grissom was formulating was the same one I believed, or at least still wanted to believe. "To frame Mrs. Anderson," Dr. Grissom answered looking back up at Mike and then Britt Anderson, his lips pressed in an apologetic smile.

"Thank you, Dr. Grissom. I have nothing more for this witness, Your Honor," Mike nodded his head at Grissom and returned to his seat. For the first time today, Britt Anderson turned her head to look at the jury, allowing them to see the relieved sigh she gave as Mike sat next to her, rubbing her back in support.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry the update's a little on the short side. And bad news for next week, it's exam time so may have to skip an update. I'll give it my best though.**

**Thank you readers and especially reviewers! I love hearing what you think. Thank you Snixx for the support!  
**

**This fic made possible by the idea chick, NEMO; my fantastic beta, Blueashke; and very very importantly, Foss. (Punctuation is prolly all screwy there and that's cos Blue isn't reading this part!)  
**


	7. Chapter 4 Parts IXthruXI

**IX**

"You're nervous," Puckerman said as he caught up with me turning down the hallway leading back to the courtroom. Sylvester had given us a fifteen minute recess; I'd made like a locomotive and chain smoked my way through my cigarette case. The prospect of being questioned by Israel, who was now desperate to save his sinking ship of a case, was making my stomach do acrobatics that would have amazed PT Barnum. I didn't feel even a match short in the noodle department compared to Israel, it was more that I was Israel's last material witness and he'd be willing to send his granny downstream on a raft about now if he could save himself and the entire Metropolis Justice Department from disgrace. Ordinarily, I'd have bought tickets to a desperate DA tango, but my guilty knowledge of a certain songbird with a loaded roscoe in her purse, had me feeling like I had an excess of left feet.

"What?" I answered.

"You're nervous, Lopez."

"What makes you say that?" I said reaching for my cigarette case before remembering it was empty and cursing under my breath.

"Because you do that," Puckerman said, retrieving a cigarette from his own case, lighting it and handing it to me.

"Thanks. I do what?"

"That," Puckerman said pointing at me, as he sparked his lighter again to light one for himself. "That!"

"Noah, if you say 'that' one more..."

"Tuck your hair behind your ear. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen you nervous as a bull stuck in the milking shed, but every time, you do that," Puckerman said opening the outer courtroom door for me.

"Nice analogy, Puckerman," I said pausing in the wood paneled vestibule before we entered.

"I'm a seasoned journalist, we're expected to come up with witty stuff like that," Puckerman replied smiling his best Pepsodent grin.

"Seasoned with what?" I laughed, sitting down on one of the benches in the vestibule.

"Lopez!" Puckerman landing a tap squarely on my shoulder. "Shame it has to end. No offense to your client, but today's headline alone will only get me promoted to weekend editor. I had my eye on Specials Editor." Puckerman moved his hands horizontally as if uncovering a shiny nameplate with 'Noah Puckerman, Specials Editor' engraved on it.

"Still a long list of prosecution witnesses and Mike has his list, too. You really think it's over already?" I asked, running my tongue over my gums and realizing the one thing this courthouse really needed was a well stocked and tended bar. Justice may be blind, but she's not deaf and Truth tends to get mouthy with a few drinks in her.

"Honest? Yeah, finished. Nothing new is gonna pop up now, unless you're holdin' out on remembering something from that night," Puckerman hit me again with his elbow, I smiled weakly. "Israel hasn't got any ammo left, no pun intended. Sad part is, your girl still doesn't look innocent," Puckerman said shaking his head and putting a gleaming polished leather shoe up on the bench. He leaned forward with his elbow on his knee as he spoke. "Mike is doing a great job and all, but he can't take that knife out of her hand without someone else's hand to put it in."

"Innocent until proven guilty, Puckerman. He doesn't have to prove she didn't do it or even who did do it. The whodunit is the job of Hudsy, and you 'seasoned' reporters."

"Funny, Lopez. All that applies in a perfect world. This is Metropolis. Nobody we know had any reason to kill Blaine Anderson except his wife. The gossip rags, to which I admit my paper is a card-carrying member, really did a job on her. Every one of those jurors walked in here expecting her to be guilty. When Israel finishes up his parade of character witnesses, Blaine Anderson is going to be up for sainthood and Mrs. Anderson there, is going to be looking at the electric cure." Puckerman hooked a thumb at the round window looking into the courtroom where Mike and Britt Anderson had just returned and were talking. "Only a smoking gun is gonna change that," Puckerman said leaning back against the door to the courtroom.

"Exactly, Puckerman! A smoking gun. Not a bloody knife. He was killed with a gun," I answered a little louder than intended.

"Whoa, Lopez!" Puckerman replied, hands up in surrender. "Like it's hard to get a gun in Metropolis. They practically hand 'em out as a bubble gum prizes."

"So she has a gun now? The police didn't find a gun," I said, stubbing my cigarette out forcefully. I kept my eyes on the cigarette, avoiding his gaze while waiting for his answer. My hand moved to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, I stopped myself and hoped Puckerman didn't notice.

"I don't know. I'm just saying it's not out of left field that she might have one or know where to get one. Doesn't mean anything that they didn't find the gun the first time through, they didn't realize the man had been shot until he'd been pushing up daisies for months either," Puckerman said lighting both our new cigarettes.

"Did you check if either of them had a gun registered in Metropolis?" I smoothed my culottes out intently and glanced up at the clock, still avoiding Puckerman's eyes.

"Neither of them did, but doesn't mean anything," Puckerman shrugged. "They owned a nightclub, had to be a gun in the house somewhere. You're taking this personal, Lopez?" Puckerman asked taking a drag off his cigarette and looking back into the courtroom through the round window in the door before sitting down next to me.

"Grissom thinks she was framed. You don't?" I said ignoring his question. Of course I was wound up. I was the only person in the building that knew about the gun. Well, me and the woman whose husband got plugged to death. The woman accused of cold-blooded murder who was looking at me not to tell what I knew. The woman everyone but this lollipop believed was guilty.

"That's an egghead theory," Puckerman said, waving his hand dismissively. "The police don't think that. The jury probably doesn't buy it. Who would want to frame her? Why not just leave the gun in her hand, save time…"

"So she framed herself, Puckerman? That doesn't add up."

"Doesn't have to. You're the only one who wants to believe she's innocent. Look, it was a locked room. You were knocked out cold. She claims she was drugged and doesn't remember anything. If she doesn't testify and charm the pants off 'em it's even odds she's gets convicted." Puckerman looked at me and I returned his gaze. "I know you think she's innocent, Lopez, but if the jury doesn't believe it…" Puckerman put a hand on my shoulder and we both sat in silence for a few moments, the orange tipped crackle of our cigarettes as we inhaled the only sound.

"We better get in," I said, standing and looking at the clock above the door. "So what's promotion to weekend editor get you? A move from a small dark smelly office to a bigger dark smelly office?"

"You've seen the weekend editor's office, have you?" Puckerman chuckled as we made our way up the stairs to the balcony. I knew I'd be called next, but there'd be some business first, no need to seem too eager. We parted ways at the top of the step - him to his best view of the jury, me to my view of the defense table. She was still my client after all.

I exhaled a haze of smoke, watching through squinting eyes as the court reporter and bailiff exceeded the daily recommended amount of flirting. The prosecution and defense tables were busy shuffling papers, Mike with a hand on the back of Mrs. Anderson's chair. I turned sideways, putting my feet up on the bench, and pulled out my rolling papers and small sack of Bull Durham. I tapped a cylinder of ash and balanced my cigarette on the tray still next to the bench. Licking my fingers before pulling a sheet of paper from the box, I returned the lit cigarette to my lips. Pre-rolled cigarettes were cheap enough now that doing it myself was more a habit than a necessity. My fingers worked without my eyes or mind paying any attention at all.

Puckerman was right, even if the motto was innocent until proven guilty, no defense lawyer worth his dark blue suit relied on that. You prove to the jury that your client is innocent, you walk out with your client, not an execution date with the electric company. Proving anything is difficult, true or not. If Mike couldn't prove Britt Anderson innocent, he'd need to find who was guilty. That's where I should have come in, but up until now the trail had been cold. I'd asked Tina to check into Blaine and Sebastian's pullman past on the Super Chief. Pullman to prestidigitator to proprietor of a nightclub owner was one whizbang of a trick for even the best magicians and I wanted to know where Mr. Anderson had hidden the white bunny.

And the money…the money out of nowhere was still bothering me. Artie always said I saw the world through colorless eyes. Not true. It's just in my world there was green, cold hard cash, and red, blood red. Wherever you found one, you found the other. If someone had been threatening the Andersons it was good odds there was either blood or cash behind it. I'd have to remember to get Tina to see what she could find out from the Anderson's banker.

I was startled to feel something hit the side of my face. My hand went to my cheek as I looked down at the balled up notepaper that was sitting in my lap. I looked across the balcony at Puckerman who was laughing, arm cocked to throw another paperball. I opened my mouth to ask him what the hell that was for when I heard Shane, the bailiff calling in a very annoyed voice from below.

"Miss Santana Lopez? Santana Lopez?" Shane called loudly, as the entire courtroom strained their necks to look at me. I must have gotten lost in my cigarette rolling and missed his first summons. I squeezed one more newly rolled cigarette into the case, clicking it shut as I stood and waved at Shane, and walked quickly to the stairs.

* * *

**X**

"Santana Lopez, licensed private investigator number 137596." I was obligated in any dealings with the court or law enforcement to reveal that I was a licensed PI and to give my license number, although there was no doubt that Israel and company already had that information. Shane held out a worn black leather-covered Bible on which I placed my left hand as I raised my right. Again I mused that this courtroom needed a bar. Swearing me in over a bottle of single malt scotch was a much better way to get me to answer questions.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?" Shane said solemnly, looking at me quite intently for the answer considering he must repeat this oath hundreds of times a month. A civil servant who took his job seriously, unicorns are less rare.

"I do," I replied. I stole a look at Britt Anderson who was watching me, her kitty blues seemingly indifferent. If she was at all concerned about what I'd say, it didn't show. Maybe she was that sure of her influence over me. Maybe she wasn't wrong.

"Please be seated," Shane replied, still looking a little annoyed that he'd had to call me so many times. I flashed him a smile that landed in flames like the Hindenburg. Apparently you had to know how to work a steno machine to coax a smile from Shane. I glanced up at the skylight, this view of the wide open blue sky, streaked with uncharacteristically happy pillows of white, was breathtaking. I almost believed Superman would appear overhead and drop off that red wagon Santa never got around to delivering to me for Christmas.

Israel rose and walked slowly towards me in the witness box, looking gravely at the floor and not me as he did so. He clutched the lapels of his dark brown suit as if they might start flapping and fly away with him if he didn't hold tight. "Miss Santana Lopez, you are a licensed private detective, are you not?"

I raised my eyebrow. "Yes. Santana Lopez, licensed private investigator number 137596." I repeated slowly, enunciating each syllable.

"How long have you been a private...eye, as they like to call it?" Israel said, making a mocking face towards the jury as he did so.

"I've been a licensed private _investigator_ for two years," I answered. If he was trying to get on my good side, he'd just hopped the wrong bus.

"Are you good at what you do, Miss Lopez?" Israel asked, walking back to the prosecution's table. As with every witness before, Israel was trying to make sure the jury saw me as credible, reliable, sensible and all that other 'ble. Anything Israel could get me to say would help his case that much more if the jury saw me as a beacon of Metropolis integrity. For the sake of time, I was regretting having left my halo at home. "Are you a good private investigator?"

"Since I'm under oath and have to tell the god's honest truth, I'm the absolute best." Puckerman's shoulders shook with laughter as he put his hand over his face and nodded, amused. A small murmur of amusement was quelled by the tap of Judge Sylvester's gavel, a twitch of a smile distorting her frown.

"Very good, Miss Lopez," Israel chuckled before continuing, "And before that?"

"Before that I was still pretty good," I shrugged. Puckerman scribbled away, chuckling. Artie would have loved this. He'd be shaking his head at me, but enjoying it despite himself.

"Thank you, Miss Lopez," Israel lips resisted dropping his smile for the jury, even thought his patience was wearing weaker than his chin. "I meant how were you employed before you became a private investigator two years ago?"

"I was part of the war effort," I replied. From the corner of my eye I saw Mike look down at his notepad.

"Very commendable, Miss Lopez." Israel paused to flip a few pages in his notepad before pointing at something written there. "You worked for the government?"

"Yes. I was unparalleled at shuffling papers."

"You did more than shuffle papers, though, Miss Lopez. It says here you earned a Distinguished Service Medal during the war," Israel read from his notepad. "For those of the jury who don't know, that's the highest non-combat honor given to a civilian by the military."

My face flamed crimson. Whether he intended to or not, Israel caught a lucky one right on my chin, knocking me back on my T-strap heels. Eyes were on me from the entire courtroom. Mrs. Anderson's cool blues seemed to thaw, appraising me as if I'd just walked into the room. Israel had to do more than your usual digging to find that treasure. Why he'd find it relevant I had no idea but I didn't intend to fuel anyone's curiosity on the matter.

"Miss Lopez?" Israel asked pausing his pacing to await my answer.

"I didn't hear a question," I replied, taking a note from the Grissom Rules of Testimony.

"Your Honor, for the record, Miss Lopez was indeed awarded the Distinguished Service Medal," Israel intoned as Judge Sylvester nodded and the court reporter clickety clacked the words into record. He really was looking to pin a halo on me. I shot a glance at Puckerman, who shook his head slowly, his smile gone. He understood that particular piece of information was not to be part of his play to win Specials Editor.

"Let's get down to it, shall we, Miss Lopez?" Israel asked, apparently deciding that sainthood was not in my future, and a change in course was required.

"I thought you'd never ask," I answered.

"What were you doing at the Soirées Noires the night of July 15?"

"Enjoying the stage show, the highballs, and the hurricane," I answered looking directly at Mrs. Anderson. She averted her eyes, choosing to pay inordinate attention to a paperclip on the table in front of her. Israel knew as well as I did that part of my job was making sure the private business of my clients remained so. Even my clients' names were privileged information that I couldn't and wouldn't give out unless my client expressly gave permission.

"You were there on official business, weren't you, Miss Lopez?"

"I drink a lot, but I wouldn't call it my official business. What makes you think it was business?"

"The fact that there are phone calls from you to your agency precisely one hour apart. That's called surveillance, is it not?" Israel asked.

"I'd suggest you lay off the pulp fiction magazines. Life magazine may be more suited to you Mr. Israel. Or Mr. Puckerman's specials section," I toed the line of evasion and perjury as carefully as I could. Short of brandishing a red cape, I don't think I was capable of distraction any less subtle.

Israel waved off my musing, with an audible huff. "Were you there in an official capacity, Miss Lopez?"

I knew Judge Sylvester would only allow so much and that she'd either hold me in contempt of court or ask Israel to move on. Ten to one I was spending the night in the pokey. I'd probably get a cell to myself and if it had a window some might argue it was better than my apartment. It was the liquid refreshments and non-communal powder rooms where my apartment edged out the Metropolis jail, by a nose. It was time to offer myself up in sacrifice and stop annoying the natives. "I can't answer that. I can't divulge any information regarding a client or services rendered to a client."

"Were you working for the Anderson's, Miss Lopez?" Israel's smile was now a fond memory.

"Keep up with me now, I said I can't answer that," I replied, looking Israel down directly.

What little control his hair tonic had offered him this morning began to give way and Israel's curly hair swayed with each emphatic word from his mouth. "Were you or were you not employed by a client, any client, on that night, Miss Lopez?"

Turing to face Judge Sylvester I quipped, "I see this poet only knows one poem. Your Honor, I don't want to waste the court's time, but I can't answer these questions."

Judge Sylvester leaned towards me. "Miss Lopez, you understand what it means if you don't answer Mr. Israel's questions? A contempt charge. Don't let the youthful looks fool you. I'm no meter maid. I don't write you a ticket. I get you an all expenses spared trip to a cell for the next week. You understand that?"

No client would ever hire me again if they had to worry about me rolling on them under the lightest pressure. My livelihood depended on my reputation. Cooling my heels in the pokey was worth my reputation. A week was a bit longer stay than I needed to catch up on a badly needed manicure, but I nodded that I understood. "Clear as glass, Your Honor."

"Mrs. Anderson," Judge Sylvester turned and addressed the defense table, where Mike paused his whisperings in Britt Anderson's ear, "Miss Lopez is showing some impressive character here, but it's not necessary. You can give her permission to disclose information that would save us all the embarrassment of sending a war hero to jail for upholding her honor. Mr. Chang, talk to your client." Judge Sylvester tapped her gavel twice and stood. "Five minute recess."

Judge Sylvester exited to her chambers and the room sat motionless, all eyes on Britt Anderson. After more whispers from Mike, she slowly raised her head to look at me, eyes brimming with tears. Mike looked at up at me and mouthed, 'It's okay'. I wondered how much he knew, if he was now sharing the burden of knowing about the gun, her gun. I wasn't usually one to enjoy company in my misery, but the thought of another seat beneath the sword brought some sense of relief just thinking about it. I sat back, watching the skylight slowly fill with light grey clouds, and waited.

Before I'd come up with a complete agenda of things I could do while locked away, including annotating War and Peace and constructing a matchstick replica of the White House, Judge Sylvester returned. "Mr. Chang, what say you?"

Mike rose, put one hand on Britt Anderson's shoulder and turned his warm brown eyes to me. "My client has nothing to hide. She waives her right to privilege in regards to her employment of Miss Lopez."

"Thank you, Mr. Chang, I'd derive no pleasure from locking Miss Lopez up. Thank you for sparing us that. Does everyone understand what that means? Mr. Chang, your client understands that Miss Lopez may reveal the nature of her employ with the Andersons as well as any information she acquired while in their employ?" Judge Sylvester said, owling Britt Anderson. Mike turned to look down at Britt Anderson. The barely perceptible movement of her blonde bangs the only indication she'd responded at all.

"She understands, Your Honor. She waives all right to privilege in regards to Miss Lopez and her agency," Mike responded.

He didn't know. He had no idea about the gun at all. If he'd known he'd want the information to be in his control, to be revealed when he chose, not under Israel's questioning. Mrs. Anderson met my gaze as Mike spoke. Not a whisper of fear. I'd give anything to be able to forecast the weather behind those eyes. Was she so sure she had the hook in or was she innocent, gun or no gun?

Judge Sylvester turned to me at her left side, steel blue eyes intently focused on me. "Miss Lopez, understand that you will answer these questions or face contempt of court. This time I won't hesitate."

"Yes, Your Honor," I answered. My manicure and Tolstoy would have to wait.

"Thank you," Israel replied to no one in particular and rose, coming to stand before me in the witness box. "Let's get down to business then, Miss Lopez." I wondered if this was the part where I should have a handkerchief to twist. "On the night of July 15th, were you in the employ of either of the Anderson's?"

"Yes, my agency was working for Mrs. Anderson," I answered.

"Thank you," Israel replied as if he somehow felt vindicated by my answer. "Could you explain why you were hired?"

I took a deep breath and launched into explaining that Mrs. Anderson was a damsel in distress looking for someone to slay her dragons, real or imaginary. The fairytale turned Grimm when Mr. Anderson bought the farm and it wasn't so clear whether Mrs. Anderson was the fairy princess or the wicked witch. Israel asked about the none too exciting surveillance leading up to the night in question and the threatening letters. I shared openly that we didn't have even the scent of the sinister Shakespeare penning the letters after two days on the case. A wise man once said a lie would have no sense unless the truth were to seem dangerous. There was no need not to be honest on these points.

"Miss Lopez, I know it must be difficult to think about, but could you please walk us through your memories of the night starting with arriving at Mrs. Anderson's dressing room?" Israel leaned against the witness box, a look of almost sincere concern on his face.

"I'd hate to disappoint you, mine was only a brief supporting role. I didn't even win a speaking part" I replied.

"Please just tell us what you remember, Miss Lopez."

There wasn't much to tell that Hudson hadn't gone over in his timeline. There wasn't much Israel didn't already know from reading my statement. And there wasn't much I remembered clearly enough to bother mentioning. There wasn't much. I quickly arrived at, "…and then I accidentally got my head in the way of a lead crystal ashtray on its way to the floor. The room went black."

"You remember absolutely nothing after walking into the room?"

"Something akin to the Wizard of Oz, but I'll spare you the Technicolor details of my tia riding a bicycle in a tornado," I answered. "The next thing I remember is waking up to Police Chief Hudson's beautiful mug."

"You heard nothing? You saw nothing?" Israel asked, leaning towards the witness box. The sun ducked behind now dark grey clouds causing the skylight to darken above us. Shadows of clouds raced across the courtroom floor in front of me and it began to rain.

"Lemme try this again, it's a trick I do at parties, I get sacked on the head and I pass out. I don't remember anything."

"Somehow Blaine Anderson was shot to death in a locked room. The choices are you or his wife. Do you carry a gun, Miss Lopez?"

"You think I shot him? You need an anatomy lesson if you think I could have smuggled a gun in and out of there unnoticed, especially under your esteemed colleague Police Chief Hudson's watch." I held my breath waiting for the next question. Although I knew what the answer was, I didn't know which answer I'd give.

"No, I don't think you shot him, I'm just ruling out the possibilities." Israel paused.

"To the best of your knowledge, did Mrs. Anderson own or have access to a gun?"

I glanced down at my hands, for how long I didn't know. The smart thing to do would be to let the court know about Mrs. Anderson's gun and let them sort things out. That would be the smart thing. When I looked up I found Israel's eyes and tried my level best to speak slowly and distinctly to him. "Mrs. Anderson never showed me any gun in her possession."

It was done. I could rationalize the wording when I was accused of perjury, but I knew I'd just bought my ticket and I'd have to weather the ride ahead. I saw Britt Anderson's eyes close and her lips move soundlessly. Whether it was heaven or hell that heard her prayers, I couldn't tell.

Israel continued, "Miss Lopez, you'll remember that you are both a material witness and an expert witness in this case. I'm going to ask for your expert opinion, here."

"Bombs away," I answered, thankful for the lack of follow-up on his previous question.

Israel walked slowly towards the jury box and then turned slowly back towards me before asking, "Who killed Blaine Anderson?"

"Someone with a knife? Wait, no, a gun. Someone with a gun." The jury laughed. Judge Sylvester tapped her gavel and gave me a warning look.

"Do you have a theory about who killed Blaine Anderson?"

"A guess?"

"Yes, you're a professional investigator. Surely you have a guess as excellent if not better than anyone else."

"My guess may be excellent or it may be crummy, but Sra Lopez didn't raise any children loopy enough to make guesses in front of a DA and a stenographer."*

"Do you think Brittany Anderson killed Blaine Anderson?"

"I do not," I answered. This I could say with great conviction. This I could say without fear of perjury. The one thing I felt for sure. The one thing I had no way of proving or ever knowing for sure.

"Thank you very much for your time, Miss Lopez. Your witness," Israel smiled a genuine albeit weak smile and returned to his seat.

Mike Chang rose. "I have no questions for this witness, Your Honor."

"And with that, Miss Lopez," Judge Sylvester nodded her head towards Shane, who opened the hip high gate leading out of the witness box, "you are dismissed. Please do not leave town until the trial is over."

With another tap of her gavel, Judge Sylvester recessed court for the day and the courtroom quickly emptied. Puckerman ran to the nearest phone booth to relay his story before having to share with the other press. Mike Chang talked quietly to Ben Israel as Shane led the jury out of the courtroom. Judge Sylvester spoke a few words to the stenographer and she, too, disappeared.

For some reason, I sat still, not moving a muscle. The once golden sunlight dappled courtroom had been cast in the full shadow of thick clouds that bombarded the courtroom's skylight with fistfuls of barbed raindrops anxious to break their way in. Their insistent drumming sounding like the prelude to a horse cavalry. A flash of lightning jolted me back into focus and my eyes came to rest upon Britt Anderson. We sat staring at each other, casting flickering shadows as the lightning flashed overhead. Neither of us tried to make our thoughts known, perhaps even to ourselves. We sat this way until she was escorted away, back to her cell, and I was left sitting alone.

*Modified from The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett

* * *

**XI**

The skies were dark, the heavens were sobbing, and the winds were howling, a day custom-built to match my mood. It seemed to have rained non-stop for the last two weeks since my testimony; Metropolis was on the verge of becoming Atlantis. I had mixed feelings about whether that was a bad thing. Nonetheless, I pulled my fedora down low, buckled the belt of my trenchcoat, and pulled up the collar as I pushed my way out onto the courthouse landing. After half-finishing a smoke, I tossed a kid the remainder of the store-bought cigarettes I'd given in to buying, despite intentionally leaving my case at home. I'd smoked more cigarettes in the last two weeks than the entire Pacific fleet and I didn't care what any doctor said, it was making it harder to climb the stairs to the office every night.

I found my way back inside after the bell tolled announcing the jury's verdict. Puckerman's light grey suit made him easy to spot in the crowd and I pushed my way forward to stand next to him. We exchanged a few words and Puckerman turned to continue to chatter away beside me. His fellow press agents had been let in to hear the verdict for themselves. I heard snippets of conversation, mostly grousing that the verdict would come out too late to make the evening paper. My mind turned over the events of the last two weeks.

Puckerman had been right, after my testimony Israel had nearly a dozen witnesses come forward to testify for the canonization of Blaine Anderson. Half again as many testified to the lack of matrimonial bliss in the Anderson household, including Blaine's mother who made a tearful apology to God for not stopping her beloved Blaine from marrying "that woman."

With each character witness for the dearly departed Blaine Anderson, Mike Chang skillfully needled an admission that no one had any reason to believe that Mrs. Anderson wanted to or was capable of murdering Mr. Anderson. Each time Mike directly asked if the witnesses if they believed Britt Anderson killed her husband, and each time they answered no. When Israel's witness list was exhausted, Mike Chang stood and simply stated, "The defense rests, Your Honor."

I looked up as the jury was ushered in and a deadly hush fell on the courtroom.

"Have you reached a verdict?" Judge Sylvester intoned, looking sternly over the top of her glasses. The head juror stuttered affirmation. Shane extended a hand to the juror who passed him the bright yellow folded piece of paper, which he then handed to Judge Sylvester.

My thoughts and my eyes drifted to Britt Anderson. She sat directly opposite the jury, dressed in a simple blue checked dress. Her head tumbled carefully coiled golden curls onto her shoulders as she looked at Judge Sylvester, across the faces of the jury and then the crowd in the courtroom, searching. When her baby blues found mine, she stopped. Her lips curved in a small smile. I bore no ill-will towards Britt Anderson. My actions were my own. I'd say to the end that I believed she was innocent. I smiled back at her.

Judge Sylvester's face was set to its customary frown as the slip of paper was passed back to the head juror, who wiped his shaking hands on his plaid suit and began to read.

"We, the jury, in the case of the People of the State of New York versus Brittany Anderson AKA Britt Noir, find the defendant… not guilty on the sole count of murder in the first degree."

* * *

**A/N: There's more! There's more! Soon!**

**Thank you Snixx and Nayshen.  
**

**Thank you storymakers and uber betas- NEMO and Blueashke.  
**

**Thank you Foss for everything.  
**


	8. Chapter 5 Parts I&II

**Chapter Five**

**October 1947**

**[Final (Take 3) | Miles Davis]**

It sounds like a nursery rhyme, four bottles of whiskey, sitting on a shelf. You can tell by the label on the first one that it's way out of your league, your wallet blisters just looking at it. The last one gets eliminated quick, too. You're in the mood, but for something kind of special, more special than that one. You look at the labels on the remaining two, trying to guess what, how, and how long you're gonna pay for this. Just hold your breath and choose. Something about that one draws you in. You're tentative, at first. You sip, savor, you notice the complexities. That's what you call faults you love enough to overlook, complexities. End all the handshaking, winks, and innuendo, you're all in now. Swallow it down, it burns, but it makes you smile. And just you wait. The warm glow, you feel it? Like sunshine in your veins. You can't wait for that second glass. It's just as good. No, it's better. It's better because you knew what to expect and you dove in with no reservations, not holding back a thing. The sun burns brighter. The world is lighter. The second followed by the third and fourth and then... you tilt the bottle upside down. The end. That was good while it lasted. Now it's just an empty bottle. But that's love, right?

I lay on the glove leather couch in my office, blowing smoke from a nearly defeated cigar, and compiling a travelogue of the dust motes sailing through the stray sunbeams the blinds failed to contain. It was 8AM on an October morning; it should have been chilly and dark. Instead, it was so bright out I'd had to salvage a pair of scratched Ray-Bans from the bottom of my drawer for the walk to work. The unseasonably warm sunny Metropolis weather was a stark contrast to the wind and rain that staged the Anderson verdict just yesterday. If one was prone to that kind of thinking, it was a heavenly nod of approval from the powers that be. I was face-up and thinking the Beast Metropolis just took a catnap, letting Justice snatch a rare win.

I'd shared a drink or four with Puckerman and Mike to celebrate the courtroom victory yesterday, then stopped by to tell Artie the good news. It was good news, but I didn't feel like dancing about it. Sure, sure, everyone had a happy ending, Puckerman, Mike, and Britt Anderson, most of all; everyone except Artie and Blaine Anderson. And with her husband's killer still on the loose, how long was Mrs. Anderson's happy going to last? For now, Britt Anderson was free and for good or bad, I played a big role in that. I slouched down a few more inches, resting my head on the arm of the couch, wrinkling my slacks the best way I knew how. I didn't have any clients to see today, I didn't have any clients to see this week, so it didn't really matter.

I tried to jigsaw the pieces of the puzzle together, with not the slightest clue what the big picture on the front of the box was supposed to be. I was determined to make something of it, I owed that much to Artie.

My scratched record of a brain keeps coming back to 'same day'. Britt Anderson hired us to find out who was sending threatening letters to her husband. The day after, he ends up dead and my partner ends up shot. Both shot. Same day. Same gun? Mrs. Anderson has a gun. Did she really shoot Mr. Anderson? She couldn't have shot Artie. She didn't leave the Soirées Noires after I got there that night. And she had no reason to shoot Artie even if she had the opportunity. All this the same day Lauren, the waitress, says Mr. Anderson is planning to surprise the Mrs. with something. Something in a steamer chest he pulls in through the back alley. Same day.

"Seen this?" Tina said, coming through my office door holding a copy of the Metropolis Daily in one hand, two cups of her famous coffee in the other. The mere aroma of Tina's coffee was a tonic to the tired soul. The taste was a silk-smooth buttery whisper for which I'd never found, nor was I seeking, rivals. Tina, in a sunny yellow and white plaid dress, placed the coffee and the newspaper on the low coffee table in front of my couch roost. Before I could protest, she stepped around the couch and tugged open the blinds, filling the room with painfully bright light which was amplified by her kindred spirited dress. "How many plants are you gonna kill before you realize they need sunlight to grow?" Tina fussed with the forlorn philodendron hanging above my head in the window while she clucked her tongue.

"When are you going to find one that grows on moonlight?" I answered, reaching up to snap the blinds shut again. "Or whiskey?"

"Or smoke," Tina said, cutting her eyes at the stubbed out cigar butt in the ashtray. "I thought you were quitting?"

"I was. I did. Quitting felt so good I thought I'd start up so I could do it again."

Tina shook her head and moved the ashtray to push the paper and coffee closer. "Take a look."

"What's the word?" I said, reaching for the steaming coffee, avoiding the newspaper. I wasn't itching to know what any Metropolis rag had to say about the trial. Every paper that had ripped Britt Anderson's personal life to shreds to make a nickel before the trial was now trumpeting the 'Return of Justice' to Metropolis, 'Metropolis' Lady in Red Prevails' or some equally condescending headline written by "seasoned" reporters. My, my, how the collective sentiment of Metropolis turned on a dime, or rather a nickel.

Tina pulled the paper back and read aloud an article about the legal wizardry of Mike Chang. The same talking heads that suggested he might be criminally negligent in his defense of Britt Anderson were now lauding his "daring defense tactics". He never called a witness, least of all his own client, and in a move that must have horrified a profession that prided itself on bluster, he rarely spoke more than a few words. Instead he carefully dismantled Israel's case, witness at a time, and in the process made the Metropolis police and DA's office look as useless as spitting lying down. Mike was receiving job offers and speaking invitations from every law school and legal firm in the country. His time had finally come; another 'W' for the good guys.

Tina finished reading from the paper and reached into her pocket retrieving a square black envelope and a rectangular manila one. "This was under the door this morning," she said placing the black envelope on the table, "and this is from the coroner's office." She placed the manila envelope atop the black envelope.

Curiosity compelled me to try the mysterious one first. Picking up the glossy black envelope, I strode across the room to the letter opener sitting on the edge of my desk. With a flick of my wrist, I sliced open the envelope and retrieved a piece of thick red cardstock from inside. "Well, well, it's a red letter day; an invitation to Mrs. Anderson's welcome home party at the Soirées Noires tonight," I said, holding up the red card. "Wanna be my invited guest?"

Tina cringed, "Will Sugar Motta be singing?"

"It doesn't say," I chuckled, flipping the card over and feeling the raised lettered 'SN' logo of the Soirées Noires printed on the back.

"You go and have fun. I think I'd rather spend the night with Artie. "The Shadow" is on tonight. He never missed that radio show." Tina smiled determinedly. "Never will either." I smiled, sitting down behind my desk and flipping open the box of cigars Puckerman had sent over to celebrate his promotion to Specials Editor. Tina was right, come hell or high water, Artie at least made sure he was there to roar the opening lines of the show: "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!" And if I had a penny for every night he drove me to distraction whistling _Le Rouet d'Omphale, _the theme music, I'd be living the life in lush tropical Havana, not Metropolis.

"I'll tell you all about the party in the morning," I replied, trying pathetically to repeat the cigar lighting ritual I'd watch Puckerman perform a few weeks before. I'd literally set the one from this morning on fire trying to light up.

"Which reminds me! One second," Tina said heading for the door with one finger raised. She returned a moment later with her steno pad in hand. "Burt's Auto called, he said, 'the car is ready.' What does that mean?" Tina looked up from her notepad. Seeing me still struggling with the cigar she marched over, "Oh, give me that!" she exclaimed, snatching the cigar and lighter from my hands. I frowned looking down at the trashcan next to my desk, awaiting the impending arrival of the cigar and lighter. After a beat, I looked up to see Tina snip the end of the cigar with my scissors and check the draw by inhaling through the freshly cut cigar. She gracefully rolled the cigar between her fingers, turning it above the lighter, careful not to let the flame scorch the cigar wrapper. With the end evenly toasted, she blew on it, and took a long draw, exhaling puffs of smoke as the burning end of the cigar flashed orange. Without a word, she handed over the cigar, set the lighter back down on my desk, and continued reading from her steno pad. "He said with the discount for taking care of that 'unpleasant business' with his former partner, you owe him $250. What's that about?"

Looking from Tina to the perfectly lit cigar burning in my hand, I sat mouth agape.

"Santana! What car?"

"Celine. She's out of the auto hospital," I said, taking a drag on the cigar that made my eyes water.

"You fixed Celine? Why?"

I shrugged, "Artie'll need his car. Until then I'll take care of her." Tina gave me a smile that could blind an angel and hugged me so tight I groaned.

Retrieving the paper and her coffee from the table, she started towards the door. "One more thing. You asked me to talk to the Andersons' former accountant. He said there was never much cash in either of their names. No big deposits or big withdrawals since they arrived in Metropolis, as far as he could tell. He has no idea where the money Mr. Anderson used to buy the club came from, where it stayed, or where it went."

"So either he spent it all buying the club and their house or he was keeping it off the books. And the money they make from the club? That's missing too?" I asked, blowing a misshapen smoke ring into the air.

"Sounds like it, unless they don't make very much. There's enough to buy groceries and pay the electric and phone for a few months. That's all," Tina shrugged. "And now he's dead and she has no money to speak of, poor thing."

"Mrs. Anderson doesn't strike me as a girl who has to rely on sympathy to get by, she'll be fine. The Soirées Noires'll probably rake in double what it did before. What a waste he took it with him though," I said, turning towards the window and lifting a slat of the blinds. "He's the richest stiff in the cemetery." Squeezing the thick cigar between my fingers, I turned back to Tina who was standing in the doorway. "Anything else?"

"I wasn't sure how much you wanted to find since...it's over," Tina replied.

"I _thirst_ for knowledge, Tina. Besides, how's Mrs. Anderson going to pay us for 3 months' work if we don't find the money?"

"True! I'll make some more calls," Tina said turning to leave.

"Tina? About the cigar? Are you gonna tell me how you knew how to-"

"No," Tina replied and walked out of the office.

* * *

**Part 2**

"Scotch on the rocks." The red vested bartender behind the imposing mahogany bar gave a wince of a smile and a sharp nod before turning his back. I leaned in, resisting the urge to rest my foot on the brass rail running the length of the mammoth bar. This was less a matter of decorum and more a simple function of the fact that my cocktail dress fit too snug to allow such a pose to be comfortable for more than a few seconds. Tina was becoming a pro at dolling me up, and I had to admit I enjoyed the results. The emerald-green fitted silk dress with a wrap waist and a plunging neckline felt a half size too small, but Tina assured me the contrary. The appreciative smiles I'd received on the 20 yard walk from the valet stand to one of the twin bars in the Soirées Noires seemed to confirm her assertion. In the rare few inches of bar mirror not obscured by the glass menagerie of liquor bottles, I eyed my reflection. Driving Artie's Celine with the top down had not been overly disruptive to Tina's carefully coiffed creation, my hair, which was parted at the side and hung loose, still in some semblance of order, on my shoulders. I smiled to myself wondering which would rile Artie more, the fact that the damage to Celine necessitated sacrificing her hardtop for a convertible or the fact that I'd left her with the eager young valet at the curb.

"Howard? Make it top shelf. And anything Miss Lopez wants is on the house," a voice I knew very well drifted past my shoulders, tickling my ears. I turned to face the glittering vision that was Mrs. Britt Anderson. The Dom Perignon-colored gown was only a blush darker than her skin, as evidenced by a diamond shaped patch of décolletage below her throat. Her blonde waves played a provocative peekaboo; Veronica Lake would be green with envy.

"Miss Sugar said no open tabs on the house or otherwise," Howard wrinkled his forehead, somehow shifting all of his facial features to the bottom third of his face, in sincere consternation.

"Who hired you, Mr. Bamboo?" Her dark blues focused piercingly on a now visibly shrinking Mr. Howard Bamboo.

"Yes, Mrs. Anderson," Howard said, stepping on a small stool to retrieve a seventeen year old bottle of Glenlivet.

"You'd think I'd been gone three years instead of three months," Britt Anderson shrugged, turning her pools of blue towards me. I wondered inwardly how many lemmings had willingly met their demise there.

"Thank you," I replied to Howard as he set my drink upon the bar and stroked a rag in circular motions across the countertop to propel himself away. "And thank you," I nodded towards Mrs. Anderson, "for the invitation and the drink." A silky mix of caramel and fruit traipsed across my tongue as I took a sip from my tumbler.

"It seems the least I can do. I owe you my life," Britt Anderson leveled her potent gaze at me, her hand squeezing my forearm. As she leaned in, I felt the warmth of her skin radiating against my cheek. "Thank you, Santana Lopez," she whispered, her lip grazing my ear, her voice low and setting to hum a tuning fork in my chest of which I was suddenly aware. My ears flamed Rudolph red and twice as bright. My skin riddled with enough bumps to put Mama Lopez's Christmas goose to shame. My head was drunk on her gardenia perfume, and I was momentarily awash in Britt Anderson. I shuddered to think what she could do if she put any effort to it.

I shifted away and took another sip of my scotch. Either the sudden rise in body temperature or too much ice was responsible for the sinful dilution of my single malt symphony. I quickly tossed drink to tonsils and caught Howard's eye. "A double. Neat, please?" There was only one kind of drunk I had intended tonight and if Britt Anderson was paying I should get industrious about it. "Are you on stage tonight?" I asked as the bumps on my skin and vibration behind my ribs subsided.

Britt Anderson seemed to consider me thoughtfully and then replied, "Right after Sugar's set. Will you stay? I'd like you to hear."

"No offense, but could you sing before Sugar?" I lifted a fresh glass to my lips.

"Oh! Don't say that!" Mrs. Anderson shook her head.

"I can't be the first person who's said that to you?" I said looking at her incredulously. "You have heard her sing?"

"Sugar is a lifelong friend. I couldn't have kept the club without her stepping in. And the only payment she's asked is to be partner, which amounts to co-owner of a stack of red ink."

"That, and to murder a few songs. If Hudson were here I'm reasonably sure she'd be arrested for loitering in front of an open microphone," I added. She swatted my arm and we both looked out onto the parquet dance floor a few steps below. Waiters, waitresses, and cigarette girls alike flitted to and fro; the mood of the Soirées Noires was as effervescent as the flowing prosecco. The grins were wider, the steps were lighter and everyone was taking advantage of the bartenders' hands being justly heavier. Britt Anderson must have seen it too. To no one in particular, she smiled.

Turning away from the floor and assessing me from head to toe unhurriedly, Mrs. Anderson said, "You look lovely, tonight, Miss Santana Lopez." I coughed quietly, hoping to disrupt the resonance of my tuning fork.

"As do you, Mrs. Anderson," I replied, having visually confirmed this several times in the last few minutes.

A bell chimed, and she looked up at the clock above the front door. "We're on in a few. I need to change. If you can't stay for my set, may I come by your office later tonight?"

"Why certainly, Mrs. Anderson, my door is always open to you."

"Tonight then, Santana. Enjoy the show." She touched my arm before turning and extending her hand to greet more guests as she made her way backstage.

Tonight then, I thought as I retrieved my cigarette case from inside my purse. As I placed the filter between my lips, flames sparked to life from either side of me, Mike Chang and Noah Puckerman. I nodded, accepting Mike's offer. I inhaled and saw Puckerman raise his eyebrow, silently smacking his lips before returning his lighter to the inside breast pocket of his white dinner jacket. He straightened his black bowtie and tapped the bar twice with two fingers to get Howard the bartender's attention.

"Thank you, my knights in formal evening attire."

"Evening, Santana," Mike said smiling; hands in the pockets of his dark blue suit, ever the lawyer. "You look fantastic tonight."

"Yeah, Lopez, nice to see those legs every once in a while. You should let them out more often," Puckerman said with a smirk, although it was clear his assessment had not ventured anywhere below my waistline. Howard approached and Puckerman ordered, "Another for the lady and make mine the same. Mike?"

"Tonic water," Mike shrugged, "I've got briefs to write tonight."

"Suit yourself. And a tonic water."

"Puckerman, mine's Glenlivet, you may want to try on the price for size before you order a round for the room," I smiled taking another sip.

"Well, well, look who's going places. Make mine a double, barkeep," Puckerman said, sneering playfully at me.

The house lights dimmed twice, signaling the show would begin soon. I set my empty tumbler on the bar, tucking my purse under my arm. "Shall we find a table?" Mike offered the crook of his arm and we turned to face Puckerman whose rapt attention was focused on a freshly blonde woman making eyes at him from the opposite end of the bar. I touched his shoulder and he gave a small wave without turning to look at us. "Bring the drinks?"

"Yeah, yeah," Puckerman said, no doubt surveying her "legs" in her low-cut gown.

Mike chuckled and lifted a hand to signal the hostess. "I was kind of hoping we could talk anyway. Things have been impossible since the trial ended. How are you?" We followed a waitress to the table she indicated with her open palm.

"I've been good. I hear you've been more than good," I tapped a new cigarette on the cover of my cigarette case.

Mike smiled modestly, "I have gotten a lot of positive ink thanks to this trial."

"Thanks to the trial? Thanks to your brilliant defense. Take credit wherever you can, my man. Unarmed pats on the back are rare in Metropolis," I chided, turning to see the members of the Noir Orchestra taking the stage.

"I don't know about brilliant, but successful. I'll agree with that. The publicity's been good to me. I can't complain," Mike said. "Has business picked up for the 'absolute best' private investigator out there?"

I shrugged. To be honest, we'd gotten more than our share of calls from people trying to beat a rock solid rap hoping I was their ticket. When rent was due at the end of the month, I'd have to pick between the lesser of the Metropolis evils beating a path to our door.

"Maybe now isn't the time to talk about it," Mike said, looking conspiratorially over his shoulder, "but I get the feeling…is there something more I should know about?"

At least one very real reason I would never deign to give up smoking for long was the ten second pause it afforded you in awkward conversations. Although it wasn't reflected in a snappy response, I milked this drag for fifteen seconds easy. "What do you mean?" I asked, exhaling.

"The trial. There's more. I know you know more," Mike moved the tea candle between us to the side and leaned forward. "You know you could lose your license if you have knowledge of a crime and don't report it. Let alone the accusation of…," Mike paused, whispering the words as if uttering a foul unforgivable curse upon my mother, "…perjury."

Again, the tip of my cigarette pulsed orange. "You're only responsible for what you know, Mike. Not what I know." Mike didn't take his eyes off of me as he sat back in his seat. The expression on his face left me unsure if it was his impression of the trial that was changing or his impression of me. The fact that he avoided eye contact the rest of the evening made me suspect the latter.

A drum roll began and Puckerman clamored into his chair, setting three glasses on the table. All eyes turned to the stage as a dark haired member of the orchestra stepped center stage and read haltingly from a card in his hand, "Ladies and gentleman, the Soirées Noires is pleased to present, for your-," he paused and looked off stage before continuing, "for your musical pleasure, Miss Sugar Motta." He stepped back from the microphone and retreated to the horns section.

The audience clapped, a sign that most had not been in the club while under Miss Motta's management. As before, a blindingly silver figure hopped to the microphone.

"Well, well, who do we have here?" Puckerman said, grinning, wolf teeth bared.

"Would never argue against your well-honed instincts, Puckerman, but reserve judgment for a few moments more?" I whispered, "You'll thank me."

"Thank you, Metropolis! Thank you! Thank you! I appreciate all of your love, but sadly, tonight is not about me. Tonight is the welcome home party for our falsely maligned Lady in Red, Mrs. Brittany Anderson!" Sugar Motta clapped her hands, clashing her silver bangles, inducing gnashing of teeth. "But before we bring out our lady of the night, I want to dedicate a little song the fellas and I have been working on. To you, Britt, from all of us here at the Soirées Noires." Being a private investigator meant that I was a student of human nature. It didn't take an iota of my powers of observation to see that the Noir Orchestra was visibly uncomfortable. The tugging of ties and shifting in seats was painfully plain from the back of the house.

"Fellas? Hit it!" Sugar Motta commanded.

**[I Need A Little Sugar in My Bowl (modified lyrics) | Bessie Smith]**

_You need a little sugar in your bowl_

_You want a little sweetness down in your soul_

_And I could stand some lovin' oh so bad_

_I feel so lonely, I feel so sad_

Whether it was the oddly inappropriate lyrics, the accompanying pelvic motions, or the continual aiming at and missing the correct pitch, the audience quickly joined the Noir orchestra in appetite spoiling discomfort. Puckerman turned and mouthed 'thank you', none too subtly covering his ears with his hands.

_You want a little steam on your clothes_

_Maybe I can fix things up so they'll go_

_What's the matter Daddy, come on, lemme save your soul_

_Drop a little sugar in your bowl_

_I ain't foolin'_

_Drop a little sugar in your bowl!_

With that, the music stopped and a stunned audience of one hundred or more sat stone quiet and as sober faced as in first Sunday mass. Mike Chang had the decency to cover his mouth, concealing his snickering. Noah Puckerman laughed openly. From somewhere in the audience a clap began. Some unspoken word moved through the crowd that clapping, although not too enthusiastic, was the best response to the tonal travesty that had just played out before us on stage. Miss Motta beamed and bowed from the waist. Ever gracious, she framed the orchestra behind her with raised arms, indicating they too should be blamed for the inhumanity we'd just suffered. Although I was prepared, I was equally staggered by Miss Motta's performance. While I did see her lips move again, I didn't hear what Miss Motta said and only realized as I saw the trademark red heels appear stage left that she had introduced Britt Anderson.

Judging by the pink flush of Britt Anderson's cheeks, Sugar Motta's welcome home tribute had not seen the early afternoon rehearsal that the Andersons had made an institution at the Soirées Noires. She hugged Miss Motta and took her place behind the microphone she alone owned despite who dared borrow it. The house rose to shower her with applause.

"My goodness! Thank you!" Mrs. Anderson said quietly into the microphone, visibly moved. She turned away from the audience and the piano player darted to her side to offer his handkerchief. Dabbing at her eyes, she turned to face us. "Thank you," she blinked back tears, "keep that up and my eyes will match this dress in a few minutes more," her soft laugh was echoed by the crowd. "I'm not much for speeches, so, friends, family," she turned her head addressing each corner, each floor, of the Soirées Noires, "I hope you'll find what I'm trying to say in this song." She stepped back from the microphone, gave the slightest nod of her head, and the orchestra strings swelled in response.

**[Let Me Sing and I'm Happy | Irving Berlin]**

_Let me sing a funny song_

_With crazy words that roll along_

_And if my song can start you laughing_

_I'm happy, happy_

_Let me sing a sad refrain_

_Of broken hearts who love in vain_

_And if my song can start you crying_

_I'm happy_

Puckerman turned towards Mike and I. "How's it feel being responsible for freeing the songbird? Pretty good, huh?"

Mike did not return my glance and I deftly maneuvered into the cigarette stall for the third time tonight. Puckerman didn't seem too interested in an answer and returned his attention to the stage.

_Let me croon a lowdown blues_

_That lifts you out of your seat_

_If my blues can reach your shoes_

_And start you tapping your feet _

_I'm happy_

The crowd erupted in thunderous, enthusiastic, sincere applause, most standing in ovation. Britt Anderson inclined her head and graciously stepped to the side to direct applause to her accompanists. As the applause slowed, she cradled the silver microphone in her hand once more. "Thank you for all of your support. Thank you for believing in me and giving me the chance to sing for you again." She received more applause in response.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a hostess offering me a piece of paper. I mouthed thank you and glanced down; 'phone call for Miss Lopez'. I looked back towards the coat check; another hostess stood covering the mouthpiece of the phone with her palm and beckoned me. On nights neither Tina nor I would be in the office, I paid for an answering service to direct calls to one of us. We couldn't afford both rent and turning away potential clients. I extinguished my cigarette and stepped away from the table, nodding to Mike and Puckerman. Onstage, Britt Anderson began again. I paused, turning back to the stage. I stood at the top of the mezzanine steps, directly in front of the Lady in Red, only a parquet dance floor between us.

"One last song from me and I'll return the dance floor to you." She shielded her eyes from the stage lights and turned her head as if scanning the audience. Like everyone else in the crowd, I tried to follow her line of vision. "I hope you decided to stay. This one is for you."

**[Nearness of You | Ned Washington & Hoagy Carmichael]**

_It's not the pale moon_

_That excites me_

_That thrills and_

_Delights me,_

_Oh, no._

_It's just the nearness of you._

I scanned the crowd again looking for the intended recipient. Several heads seemed to sway to the music, but no one looked especially moved by being on the receiving end of Mrs. Anderson's declaration.

_It isn't your _

_Sweet conversation_

_That brings this_

_Sensation_

_Oh, no._

_It's just the nearness of you_

The hostess holding the phone stage whispered, "Miss Lopez?" I faced her and nodded. "It's Metropolis Memorial. It's an emergency!"

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for your patience, for the lovely reviews, and for reading my story. *muah***

**Thank you, NEMO & Blueashke!**

**Thank you, Snixx Ladies, especially K, for putting up with me foolishness.**

**Thank you, Foss, me love. Hehe. ;)**

**More soon! **


	9. Chapter 5 Parts III&IV

**Part 3**

I skidded to a painful halt in my bare feet and flung open the door to the third floor Metropolis Memorial room that I knew all too well. The shades were drawn and the curtain surrounding the bed was pulled, blocking my vision of all but the foot of the bed. Tina stood, facing me, tears streaming down her face.

"Santana!" she cried.

"I-i-is he?" I stuttered looking at the figure under the stark white sheets of the hospital bed. She nodded her head vigorously as I took a step forward, embracing her and peering at the head of the bed.

Propped up on pillows, Artie's drawn face and pale blue eyes weakly returned my stare from behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Can he talk? Can you talk?" I asked addressing first Tina and then Artie. Artie slowly licked his lips.

"Not yet. And don't you try!" Tina said, looking sternly at Artie. "He's been conscious less than an hour, Santana. Let's not push him."

I nodded, kissing Tina on the forehead, and stepped towards the bed, placing my hands atop Artie's. "Artie," I had a Metro phonebook's worth of questions to ask and things to say, but for right now, all I could do was repeat his name aloud. "Artie." I felt Tina's hand on my shoulder.

"I'll go get some more water. Artie, take it easy. Don't push him," she said as she retrieved the pitcher from his bedside table and left the room.

As the door closed, I sat on the edge of the bed, still holding Artie's hand. "Artie, there's a few things I need to tell you when you feel up to it and a few things I need to-" I paused seeing Artie's eyes making an exaggerated motion of looking at the foot of the bed. I looked back at him. He looked back at the end of the bed. "Artie? Is something wrong with your foot?" He closed his eyes and shook his head very slowly as if it were difficult and or painful to do so. I looked back at the foot of the bed. Besides his sheet-covered feet, the only thing there was my purse. I let go of one of his hands and reached for it. His eyes followed my hand carefully. "My purse?" I said holding it up and turning it side to side trying to deduce what he could possibly need from my purse so urgently. He opened his eyes wider in acknowledgement. "Something inside my purse...Artie, no way I'm giving you a smoke...well...maybe if we could get a nurse to distract Tina long enough..." I heard a tap.

I looked down to see Artie's index finger tapping weakly on the bed. I tilted my head, frowning at him once more. I opened my purse and dumped the sparse contents onto the bed near his hand. A small brush, a pencil, a lipstick, my cigarette case and lighter, and a ring of keys fell out. I waited for his reaction to the Buick key that belonged to Celine, but his little finger stretched anemically towards the stub of pencil instead. "You want the pencil?" Again, a tiny nod from Artie. I closed his index finger and thumb on the pencil stub and pulled a small pad of paper from the bedside table, placing it under the tip of the pencil. I watched him carefully as he struggled to drag the pencil tip across the paper. His hand was unsteady and his weakened grip had trouble holding onto the pencil. I waited, looking intently between his hand and the determined frown on his face.

"They had hot cider, I brought you one, Santana." I jumped at the sound of Tina's voice. "Will you bring the pitcher in? It's there," Tina indicated with a nod of her head the nurses' station behind her. She set down two steaming paper cups on the small table on wheels next to the bed.

"Sure," I said, pausing to push the pencil I'd knocked out of Artie's hand back in place and atop the notepad. I retrieved the pitcher while Tina fussed about the room, fluffing Artie's pillow and brushing his hair to the side of his face with her fingertips. Returning with the pitcher, I placed it on the nightstand. I palmed the pad of paper and pencil, sweeping the rest of the contents of my purse back in. Tina didn't seem to notice.

We sat and drank the cider, Tina pouring small sips of water in Artie's mouth. She recounted how just as "The Shadow" came on the radio he opened his eyes. His primary doctor was already gone for the evening so we'd have to wait for a thorough check-up in the morning. As Tina spoke, my eyes were on Artie and his eyes moved between my eyes and the piece of paper in my hand.

After more than an hour, a nurse came to tell us we'd already gotten extra hours of visiting time and that Artie really needed his rest. As Tina packed up the remains of the dinner she'd brought along, I uncrumpled the paper I'd clutched in my hand for the last hour. Artie's writing was far worse for the wear and the lines he drew shook terribly. There was a single symbol on the paper. Depending on which direction I turned the paper, it was a flattened '8' or a flattened symbol for infinity, '∞'. I looked back at Artie frowning, wondering if this was some effect of the coma.

The nurses began herding us out the door. A step from leaving, I stuck my head back in the room and called back to Artie, "Celine says hello! She's a soft top now!" and exited, chuckling to myself.

* * *

**Part 4**

**[Florence Sur Les Champs Élysées | Miles Davis]**

The piece of paper Artie had scribbled on rode shotgun as I circled Celine back to the office after dropping Tina at home. Every stoplight cast a red glow across the scrap of paper, none illuminated its meaning. The streets were empty and I parked at the curb a few steps from our office building. Shoes dangling by the straps in my hand, I cat footed up to the building, turning Artie's message over in my hand and mind as I climbed the six flights to the office. Just inside the door I paused, cigarette smoke wafted down the stairwell. Stepping quietly, I listened for any clue as to who would be in the building at this hour. I passed the second, third, fourth and fifth floor. Floor by floor, as I reached the landings, the source of the pungent smoke eluded me, the scent growing stronger as I rose. As I placed my foot on the first step leading to the sixth floor landing, the scent of flowers, gardenias, mixed with the smoke. I smiled and took the steps less carefully.

"Is there something I should know about the elevator?" the voice of Britt Anderson, greeted me as I reached the sixth floor landing. Framed by the light of the full moon coming through the hall window, she was still wearing the red gown from earlier this evening.

"I can't get the jump on anyone riding up the lift with the bells dinging on each floor now can I?" I replied, inserting my key into the door. She took a step closer to me.

"Oh, so you wanted to get the jump on me?" she smirked as I pushed the door open and waved her in.

I chuckled. "I-I forgot you were coming," I said, leading her to my office after dropping my shoes inside and closing the door behind us.

"And here I thought I'd made an impression," she took the seat opposite my desk as I tugged the chain of the lamp on my desk. Up close, I marveled at how well the red dress clung to the curves and flats of her torso.

"Can you breathe in that thing?" The words tumbled from brain to tongue without the intervention of thought in between. I sighed internally.

"No," she chuckled, "but then you can't have everything can you?"

"Well, I don't know about that," I sat down in my desk chair, retrieving a cigarette from inside the pencil drawer. I offered it to her. She shook her head. Lighting it for myself, I leaned back in my chair. A glint of light off the metal clasp of an envelope caught my attention and I pulled the manila envelope from the coroner's office in front of me. I slid the top few inches of the letter from the coroner out of the envelope, the state seal was embossed on the letterhead. "I suppose it just depends on where you're looking, Britt." I looked up from the envelope to see her looking intently, at me. I blushed.

"Are you looking?" she asked.

"Suppose I am?"

"D'you suppose you might want some company while you look?" she smiled, looking down at her hands, for the first time, uncharacteristically shy.

"I suppose that would be very nice," I answered sincerely. She lifted her head and we smiled at each other.

"Did you just call me 'Britt'? Finally?" she cocked her head to the side.

I eased out another inch of the letter seeing the words, 'Dear Sir/Madam, in regards to your inquiry'. I looked up at Britt, still eyeing me curiously. "I thought about it and seeing as I lied for you, I figure we're on a first name basis now."

Her face flushed red and I regretted having so clumsily ruined the moment. "I didn't kill him. You know that, don't you?"

"I do know that. But I also know you know who did kill him. Don't you?" I pulled the letter out of the envelope and glanced at it quickly before turning my attention back to Britt Anderson.

"What makes you think I…does it matter? Does it matter to anyone now? Can't we just put it behind us?" her eyes pleaded with me.

I took a drag on my cigarette, instead of replying, studying her as I did so.

"Fine," she sat up straight in the chair. "You're still technically working for me, right?"

I nodded my head slowly, unsure of what was coming next.

"Well, before we discuss repayment, I have one last thing to ask of you," she reached for a small brown paper bag and set it on the desk in front of me. "I need you to get rid of that for me."

I sat forward and pulled the bag towards me. Reaching in I felt the cold steel of a revolver barrel. I pulled the gun out by the handle, out of habit sniffing for the smell of fresh gunpowder. I placed the gun on my desk atop the letter from the coroner's office, business end pointing towards the window to my left. "What do you want me to do with this, Britt?"

"I don't know. I know it's no good for me to have it. Like you said, I don't even know how to use it. Can you do something with it? I realize the proper thing to do would be turn it in to the police but…you're the only one who believes me..."

As she spoke, I read the numbers engraved on the body of the gun, '.32 Rossi', just as I remembered it. I shifted the gun forward to see the words on the coroner's ballistics report, 'Colt Super .38'. She didn't shoot him. I breathed a sigh of relief for us both. I knew in my gut that she was innocent, but I'd made a special request to Dr. Grissom, just in case those bright eyes and long long legs of hers had made me lose true north. I'd had moments of doubt, to say different would be a lie, but with the gun and the letter sitting on my desk, I shrugged off the weight of carrying her secret all these months.

"I'll take care of it," I said smiling and looking up at her, "the gun and the bill. Don't worry about either one."

"Really?" Britt looked at me incredulously. "Are you sure? It would take me some time, but I could absolutely pay you back. I'm not asking you to…"

I stood up and walked around to the other side of the desk, taking her hands in mine.

"Britt, you just got a second chance at life. Live the hell out of it."

I saw blur of red and smelled a rush of gardenia. The soft wet lips of Britt Anderson were pressed firmly against my own. If the tuning fork in my chest was still vibrating, I couldn't hear it over the pounding of my heart in my ears. My hands found the blonde waves of her hair and I pulled her close to me, reveling in the feeling. Just as suddenly as the kiss had begun, Britt pulled away from me and stepped towards the door. Dazed, I stared after her.

"I still got the jump on you," she said smiling. I smiled sheepishly as the outside office door opened and closed, and the sound of her heels clicking faded down the hallway.

She must have called in advance because as I stepped to the window, I saw the headlights of a black and white cab swing onto the street below, pulling up behind Celine. Instinctively, I reached for the cigarette burning in the ashtray on my desk. As I brought it to my mouth, I licked my lips. Deciding to enjoy the sweet taste of her a little while longer, I stubbed out the cigarette.

Trouble chased some people like a tin can tied to a cat's tail. Try as they might, there was no outrunning it. As it had so many nights before, the angel on my shoulder whispered in my ear that Britt Anderson was one of those unfortunate pussycats and that taking up with her in any way was a downright awful idea.

I looked down and saw her exit the building below, red dress glittering in the full moon just as bright as it had on stage earlier. The driver jumped out of his cab, holding the door for her. He closed the door behind her and I saw the window roll down as the driver climbed back into the front seat. Britt Anderson's face appeared in the window and I imagined for a moment she was looking back up at the window. She blew a kiss and I felt my ears catch fire once again. I laughed out loud and swept the angel off my shoulder with a brush of my hand.

As I turned something caught my eye. Celine, her dark windows reflecting the tail lights of the cab as it retreated down the street, sat alone on the street. I waited, watched. Ever so faintly, a small orange glow burned from within the car. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention as I grabbed the revolver off my desk and darted down the steps.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for sticking with me. Just one little bit to go and I promise it'll be up very soon. **


	10. Chapter 5 Part V&Epilogue

**A/N: Thank Foss for this. A present for being such great readers. **

* * *

**Part 5**

"We're about twenty minutes away," the taxi driver said looking over his shoulder at me in the back seat. I'd asked him to give me a warning before we arrived at the theater so I could go over the layout in my head one last time. Front door, behind the stage, near the stage on the left, halfway in on the right, I repeated the locations of the exits under my breath, for what must have been the hundredth time. My ears popped as we ascended into the mountains of the Poconos just across the New York State border.

* * *

It had been four days since Britt had come to visit me at the office and four days since the visitor in Artie's car. I'd run down the stairs to Celine, literally half-cocked, unsure of what I was going to do when I got there. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, the man in the car had taken care of deciding what was going to happen next. As I exited the building I felt a sharp blow to my shoulder, not enough to hurt me badly, but certainly enough to make me reconsider my haste in approaching the car. The revolver was snatched from my hand.

When I turned, I faced the most imposing looking human I'd seen outside of the nickel movie theater. Dressed neatly in a black and white pinstripe suit, complete with a well-boxed fedora, he stood at least four heads taller than me and had nearly four boxing weight classes advantage. The jagged scar that ran across his right cheek and forehead broke up the monotony of his single broad eyebrow. It seemed a bit theatric, if you ask me, but it did add to the general mood I felt he was trying to project.

"Get in the car," he grunted, his croak barely decipherable even in the calm quiet October night air.

"You mispronounced 'please'." He responded with another blow to my already smarting shoulder with his hammock-sized fist. "Ah! What gives?" I forgave him his accent and moved towards the car. Ever the gentleman, he opened the rear-passenger door for me. A strong cherry-tinged scent of cigar smoke emanated from within.

"And you're Miss Santana Lopez," a voice with a distinct Brooklyn accent came from the front seat as I slid across Celine's rear bench. The occupant didn't turn around to face me, but instead addressed me by looking in the rear view mirror. His dark black hair was slicked tightly against his head and what little I could see of his clothes suggested he'd parted with a pretty penny to have them tailored. Despite the manner of our introduction, his demeanor, voice and brown eyes seemed almost jovial.

"And I'm Miss Santana Lopez. How did you know?"

"Your reputation precedes you, Miss Lopez," Mr. Brooklyn replied, his cigar flaring orange in the dark interior of the car.

"So then you've probably heard I have office hours. Why don't you give my secretary a call and we'll talk on Monday?" I moved my hand to the door. The Fedora'd gentleman outside leaned down; his face framed in the car window, and shook his head.

"It'll be worth your time to extend your office hours, just this once. Or do I gotta be a blonde in a tight red dress for that?" Mr. Brooklyn chuckled hoarsely,

"What do you want?"

"I wanna hire you. You're the absolute best investigator in the biz, said so on the record," Mr. Brooklyn said, taking a drag on his cigar. I rolled my eyes now regretting my courtroom bon mots.

"Hire me for what? Brainpower? Your current company seems a little underwhelming in that department. No offense." I smiled at Mr. Fedora through the window, hoping Celine's new soft top was somewhat soundproof.

"None take. None taken. A good leader knows how to be objective about his crew. Mr. Strando makes up for what he lacks in wit with his remarkable anatomical prowess. He can name and break all 27 bones in the human hand. Ask him, knows 'em by heart. He's learning ribs, too. Want a demonstration?"

"Maybe next time, during office hours," I replied, rubbing my shoulder.

"Good, Miss Lopez. Now let's get down to business. I think you're just the person to help me out with a problem I've been having for quite a while now."

"I'll need a $250 retainer and daily expenses," I answered, hoping that if I wasn't going to have a say in the clients I took on I might at least get paid for my work.

"I have a feeling you'll do this for a much lower fee, Miss Lopez."

"You underestimate my love of fine evening gowns. Do you know how much I spend to look this good when I get clobbered?"

"I can tell you who gave you that scar on your head, who framed your blonde girlfriend, and who shot your partner. How's that for incentive, Miss Lopez?" Mr. Brooklyn intoned.

I leaned back in my seat. "I'm listening."

Twenty minutes later and a new cigar smoked by each of us, I extended my hand to the front seat and shook the surprisingly soft yet firm hand of Mr. Brooklyn.

* * *

The cab driver opened the door in front of the Kellerman Theater, a rather large two story faux log cabin building in an otherwise unassuming mountain resort. The marquee shouted 'Rodgers and Hammerstein's Carousel!' in foot high red letters. Front door, behind the stage, near the stage on the left, halfway in on the right; I repeated the layout of the exits and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The lobby was wide and shallow, running the length of the front of the building. There were four hostess stands spaced evenly across the hall, each in front a red velvet curtain with yellow rope tassels. The sign above each said, 'Theater' in ornate gold script. It was early afternoon and I didn't see or hear a soul stirring.

I pushed aside the red velvet curtain leading into the theater on the right most side of the lobby and was greeted by the strong smell of greasepaint. I stepped into the darkened theater and touched the back of a red upholstered seat in the back row. Front, behind the stage, on the left, halfway in on the right, I turned my head visually confirming each exit. Each was exactly where the architectural drawings Mr. Brooklyn had given me said they would be. Wide thick carpet covered aisles divided the three rows of red seats. I walked slowly along the right wall, emerging from under the balcony overhang to see a large dimmed chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. I paused on the perimeter of the arc of light cast by the chandelier. Front, behind the stage, left of stage, halfway in on the right, I reached my hand out to confirm the presence of a door behind the dark tapestry-like curtains covering the walls.

As I took a deep breath and repeated my exit door mantra again, the lights were turned up on the stage, revealing an ornately decorated red, white, and gold carousel, complete with energetically galloping horses of many colors impaled on peppermint stick poles. A light brown haired man walked out to the center of the stage holding a clipboard, hung a dark jacket on the saddle horn of one of the carousel horses, and began to flip pages on the clipboard. The man was dressed in a dark brown pair of pants, a green and white striped shirt, and a dark vest. If I remembered correctly, that was the costume of Billy Bigelow, the carousel barker lead character of Carousel. I stepped from the aisle into the row of seats, and into the light of the chandelier. I cleared my throat.

The brown haired man glanced up, a blank look on his face, then back at his papers. It must have taken a second to register that I was not the person he had expected to disregard. His head snapped back up, the look on his face annoyed. I took mental account of how many steps it would take me to reach the door.

"You're not supposed to be in here. Rehearsals are private," he said taking two steps towards the front of the stage.

"Mr. Remington? I'll only take a few moments of your time," I replied. Walking towards the center of the room, still in the row of seats parallel with the exit door.

"I don't sign autographs until after the show. You'll have to come back then." He turned his back as if he'd had the last word and fully expected that was the last he'd see of me. He sat down on the edge of carousel and continued looking at the pages of his clipboard.

"Let's try this again," I said standing in the center aisle of the theater. "Mr. Anderson, Mr. Blaine Anderson? I need a few seconds of your time."

He looked up slowly from his notepad. He pointed at me with his chin, demanding, "Who are you?"

"Me," I answered, "I'm nobody, but the people I work with are pretty important people and they'd like a word with you."

I saw Blaine Anderson slide closer to the dark jacket he'd hung on one of the horses as he'd come in. "Who do you work for?" he asked.

"Come now, Mr. Anderson, how could your forget the man you stole forty large from? Remember, the train? That accident outside Chicago? Those big bags of money that went missing?"

"Rick the Stick? You work for him?" I saw Mr. Anderson's hand reach into the inside pocket of the jacket.

"With, I'm working with him," I said, taking a half step forward.

Blaine Anderson jumped to his feet and I saw the glint off the shiny barrel of a Colt Super .38. Silly of him to hang on to it. "Stay right there! I've got a gun. Don't move!" I stood stock-still, raising both palms to face him. "Throw your gun on the ground where I can see it!" He yelled, running one hand through his dyed hair.

"I prefer not to carry a gun. It's false courage that convinces you to get into situations you know you shouldn't," I answered.

"Well good for you. Come to front where I can see you. Sit down," he commanded. I sat down in the row closest to the stage, again counting the steps to the nearest exit door. "If you don't have a gun, I don't have to answer your questions and I get away. Again."

"Oh, I love this! Is this the part where you twirl your moustache?" I asked, mimicking the motions with my fingers. Somewhere on the floor back in my office, the angel I'd knocked off my shoulder was shaking her head.

"You're funny, I'll give you that. You sure you want your last words to be a joke?" Mr. Anderson expression changed from a smile to sneer as he raised the gun and pointed it at me, finger on the trigger.

I could've sworn I heard the creak of his finger squeezing the trigger when a shot rang out and Mr. Anderson's arm jerked backwards, dropping the gun. He yelped and clamped a hand on his shoulder, looking incredulously from me to the balcony.

"Sorry about that," I began, standing up, "I should have clarified. I don't carry a gun, but I do make a point of traveling with acquaintances that do." I waved back at the balcony, "Thank you, Mr. Strando. May I have a moment more before the anatomy lessons begin?" I took the grunt I heard as assent. I saw two other men standing next to Strando, their guns trained on Anderson. Anderson made a start at running for the side stage, but a bullet kicking up a bit of the wooden stage floor near his feet halted him quickly.

"Mr. Anderson, I have few questions for you. I understand stealing the money, I mean you and Sebastian were lowly pullman porters hauling bags full of fancy clothes, jewels, and money in and out of the train for movie stars and mobsters. They wouldn't really miss a few baubles here or a few thousand dollars there. I get that. But why'd you decide to cut your cousin out of the deal?"

Blaine Anderson looked up at me, his face red and full of rage. "I didn't cut him out! He got greedy! He got loose with his share and started leaving it on every roulette table in Metropolis. Then he started trying to blackmail me, threatening to put Nelson's crew on my tail! If it weren't for me he'd have been in the streets a long time ago! Penniless!" The veins in Anderson's neck and forehead throbbed and he paused to wipe his mouth after spitting out his words.

"So you killed him, made it look like he was you, and framed your wife?" I asked, seeing Mr. Strando lumbering down the aisle of theater towards the stage. I pulled a cigarette out of the case inside my trenchcoat pocket and lit it.

"Britt was never going to be convicted. No one would believe she did it. I knew she'd be fine. She wanted out of our marriage as badly as I did," Blaine sat down on the edge of the stage, blood dripping from the hand over his wound.

"A divorce seems easier."

"She forgives me doesn't she?" Blaine asked sincerely.

"You'll have to ask her that yourself." I turned to leave, brushing shoulder to elbow with Mr. Strando in the aisle. "One last thing, why'd you shoot my partner?"

"Your partner?" Blaine asked frowning at me.

"Yeah, Artie. Cute fellow, wears bowties, glasses. He was following you the night of the murder."

"Who?" Blaine said, being lifted by his arm to his feet by Mr. Strando, who'd now mounted the stage.

"See the way I figure it, you had it out with Sebastian at your apartment and you either killed him there or just knocked him unconscious. Either way you stuffed him in the steamer trunk and brought him to the Soirées Noires so you could stage the murder scene. Where'd Artie come in?"

Blaine's frown gave way to a relieved expression, "I remember now, cane right?" I nodded. "He came up behind me and tried to help me with the trunk. I said no, but he insisted. He made me drop it. Sebastian was just knocked out and groaned. And well, loose ends..." Blaine made the shape of a gun with his fingers and fired, smiling.

I gritted my teeth and took a drag on my cigarette. As I turned to leave, I called over my shoulder, "Mr. Strando? How many bones in the human skull?"

"Twenty." The words rang out distinctly from the stage.

"Take it from the top then, Mr. Strando," I said and pushed my way through the red velvet curtain back out to the foyer of the theater.

I stepped out into the cool mountain air and looked left and right for my missing yellow cab. I heard the muted beep of a horn and turned to see a hand extend from the rear passenger window of a green Cadillac Fleetwood across the street, beckoning me. I shoved my hand in my trouser pockets and approached. As I crossed the street my fingers caught a scrap of paper in my pocket. I pulled it out and recognized Artie's note from that night in the hospital; 'B', for Blaine Anderson. He'd been trying to tell me who shot him.

I reached the car, the dark-tinted window had been rolled back up, permitting me only to see the brown eyes of Mr. Rick 'The Stick' Nelson. Until Blaine Anderson had shouted it out today, I'd made a point of trying not to learn anything about my new client.

"Very nice working with you, Miss Lopez. You know, I could use a clever person like you. I often have-"

"Let's get one thing clear. I gave Anderson to you to see him get eaten, not to see you get fed*. This was a one time deal. If you need a detective in the future I can give you the name of several qualified professionals."

**[Nuit Sur Les Champs-Elysees (take 1) | Miles Davis]**

I turned and headed towards what I guessed was the main drag of this little town. I had on my favorite pair of spectators, warm wool trousers and a cigarette case full of smokes. I took a deep inhale and turned up the collar on my trenchcoat, Seemed like a good day for a walk.

*stolen from "Brick" Focus Features 2005

* * *

**Epilogue**

Beneath the glitz and glamour of Metropolis there's dirt and deceit, just like any other big city. There's a dark reality most are lucky never ever touches their everyday lives. It's an unlucky joe who gets dragged kicking and screaming into the underbelly of Metropolis. If he survives, he counts his blessings and tries to convince himself it was all just a dream, a nightmare, poor sucker. The people who see the truth of Lady Metropolis get used to her wicked ways. They learn to ignore it or they find a way to cash in. But there's a handful that's different, those who see the bad and refuse to ignore it or join in. Call us modern day Don Quixotes, jousting at windmills. Call us crazy fools for fighting a losing battle. Call us quick though, we may not last much longer.

* * *

**A/N: Gaaaaah! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. It was a blast! I loved reading your thoughts as we went. I hope it was a fun ride. I have something very special for you...stay tuned.  
**

**Thank you NEMO- this was all your brilliant idea. **

**Thank you, Blueashke- me write good thanks of you.**

**Thank you, Nayabenelux and MonkeyRats for the support you guise are so great!**

**Thank you to my Nayshen and Snixx.**

**Thank you, Ms Atomic. **

**Most of all, thank you, Foss. You are everything.**


	11. Britt Noir

_**A/N: Very excited to present a companion piece to Soirées Noires** written by **NEMO**. I'd suggest going back and taking a quick read of San and Britt's conversations in Chp 2 and 5 if it's been a while. If it's not obvious, this is Britt's POV.  
_

* * *

No one pays the pretty girl any mind. Sure, they notice her, but they don't mind her. Not even a little bit. I'd even venture a wager that a toddler with the insignificant letters j and r attached to the end of his name gets more respect than a pretty girl. But pretty girls don't bet. Why would we when we have the men to do it for us? A classy dame's not supposed to use her brain. So I played the part I was cast in. I smiled. I batted my eyelashes. I hid my giggles behind gloved fingertips. I curtsied and tilted my head. I crossed my legs at the ankle, never dangling one over the other at the knee. I spoke only when necessary. I conceded to the adage that it was a man's duty to educate a woman in all subjects. I gingerly patted a layer of powder over the purpled lesions his fists conveniently forgot to take along when he went home to his wife at the end of a rocky weekend. I was always a proper lady. And just as a lady should, I knew my way around the kitchen and the garden. I had to remind him of that when he mistook me for a side of beef yet again. A barely dented frying pan and a shallow grave beneath the carrots. My parting gift to the man in Arizona. If Father were alive, and sober for once, I imagine he'd have been proud of me. Right after scolding me for ruining his crops. "As if farming in the blasted desert ain't tough enough, you gotta go fouling up the soil with that guy", he'd say, then immediately feel sour for talking to me that way. Dipsomania was a soft healer and a quick killer, heaven rest his soul. But being a kept woman just wasn't for his little girl. A woman on the run felt like a more adventurous title anyway. I can hardly recognize the shaky me that felt even smaller than the diminutive ticket clerk that slid me my first boarding pass on my journey to freedom. I didn't even know enough to read the schedule.

"Next train east." Even for a farmer's daughter, I had more brains than that.

"No destination, miss?"

"Direction's enough for now. I have a feeling the rest will work itself out." The old coot shook his head at me as he stamped the paper.

"That women's intuition is always a fool's bet. Next train east leaves at a half past the hour." Four and a half bucks and 19 minutes later I was headed somewhere east. A late night cup of coffee in Albuquerque did the job of sobering me up enough to know that just picking a direction wasn't going to get me anywhere. I found my way to the ticket counter and set my sights on finding my own pair of ruby red slippers. I stood alone on the platform mentally creating a character for myself. I decided to play a jilted girl with a heart of ice that could possibly be warmed by a proper gentleman on her way to a new life. Not too far from the truth. I played it up in each town. The screeching of the train's wheels against the metal tracks beneath them at each stop took away more and more pieces of the life I left behind me. The faint smell of machine grease got to be as comforting as the aroma of Pop's whiskey. Maybe I coulda stayed. No one knew what I had done. I was just a girl who'd met a guy in the city for a meal every so often. There'd be questions about the sharp young businessman from Tucson who was supposed to be on a trip to Phoenix. Maybe some of the soda jerks from our familiar stops could recall us. They'd tell the police that he had been in a few weeks before with a real pretty girl. They wouldn't know a name. They wouldn't know where either of us rested our heads at night. They'd be no more helpful than a needleless compass. I could have found a job around town and stayed out of the city. Maybe after a while, when the heat died down, I coulda moved to the city and found a job as some fella's girl Friday. But I couldn't risk being found. Or even worse, repeating the same mistake. It wasn't like I'd be breaking anybody's hearts since there was no one to care about me, but turning Daddy's garden into a graveyard just wasn't the life I had mapped out for me.

Shame of it was I didn't have _anything_ mapped out for me. Shorthand and a set of legs. That was my contribution to my country. I could be anybody I wanted. Go anywhere I wanted. I could disappear just like the businessman. It was a cinch. Thanks to good casting, I never met with the beast named Hunger. I stood up for myself. I took up smoking. Whenever I got bored, I took the next train headed east and booked a room at the cheapest house. I became a woman in a man's world. I tried my hand at the odd jobs offered by the temp agencies. I sat with a few babies while their mommies took spa days. I demonstrated the art of letting a fine "parfum" evanesce in the air around you rather than applying it directly to one's skin. For fifty three dollars an ounce, a lady could smell as beautiful as I looked. They didn't think twice about forking that money over. One ounce would cost me two months' salary and I didn't even get a kickback from the sales. But it was Chicago that made it all worthwhile. The Linden School of Dance printed an open casting call for, of all things, pretty girls. The preliminaries weren't even a challenge. A nice smile and a can to match, welcome to the show. But as I sat there surrounded by twelve other pretty faces I realized the aesthetic part of the competition was over. We were moving on to the talent section. I often sang to myself as I bathed, but dancing? What cause would I have had for that? I was the other woman. The bastard never took me to places where he could put me on display. Cheek to cheek dancing in a dark private club was not on the program for that audition. As I approached the instructor for my turn I could feel all of the other, probably professional, dancers eyeing me with no less contempt than I would have for some hack pretending to know what they were doing on my turf. As the pops introduced the record and he offered me his hand, I thought back to standing on my father's feet as we waltzed around the tiny living room. The way Mama would weakly smile at me every time I spun to face her. Six days before her funeral was the last time anyone danced in that house. I hadn't even noticed the music come in but my feet were keeping up with the man, step for step. Three rounds of dancing and seven rejections later, we were a dance crew of six, designated to show the older gentlemen of Club Rialt a good time. I didn't mind being passed from grandfather to grandfather. The music was intoxicating. The atmosphere electric. The flavor of the nightlife was exactly what I had been missing in my recipe of happiness. And then Blaine Anderson blew in with his own special spice. One that smelled of a woody mint, if I remembered correctly.

He stood at the top of the stairs next to a man painted in his image. Two devilishly handsome men dressed in celestial white. His smile had been the brightest light in the room as he set his eyes on me, waving his twin off with two fingers of his right hand. Not a limb nor a garment touched him as he glided across the room of swaying bodies and gave my aching toes a relief from being beneath the weight of a Teddy Roosevelt imitator's heavy hooves.

"He doesn't really seem your type."

"I'm not in much of a position to be picky."

"Ah. You're selling yourself short, sweetheart. Times are changing. I'd suggest you change with em."

He pulled me to him for a peck on the cheek just before he spun me away, the band starting in on The Continental right on cue. I can still remember the way he set my heart aflutter when he dipped his head to kiss my hand, his eyes still on mine.

"You move well."

"I have to, mister. Don't think I'd be paid much otherwise."

"And here I was thinking you and the grizzly were thataway. Well you definitely earn your wages… Miss."

His kicks were swift as the tips of his perfectly shined black and white Stacy Adams ruffled the hem of my pale green cotton dress. His flash was enough to make me not care about his sustenance.

"My folks named me Brittany. But you can continue to call me Miss if you like."

"Name's Blaine Anderson and since I think you'd probably slap my ears flat against the back of my head in front of all these lovely people if I called you Mrs. Blaine Anderson this soon, I'll just say it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Britt."

"Wise choice, Mr. Anderson."

We danced another dance before he whisked me off the floor and out of the view of club management. His twin who was not his twin, but his cousin, had a table and 3 dizzy tizzys, one of which I presumed was for me but liquor would never be my vice. Sebastian sat silently sipping his two drinks as I familiarized myself with the second instance of a man that I could match step for step. But he matched me just as well. He plucked that glint of fame right out of my sparkling eyes that night we met in the club with plans of immortality. His name was going to be known forever as well as the name of anyone attached to him. Headed for Metropolis, he told me, the city of promise where even the most useless bum could discover his purpose. No one slept. The stars in the night sky only existed to illuminate one's path to success. He was just looking for that last final piece for his act. Something spectacular. I bit that hook and chomped my way right on up the line. I hadn't been a dreamer for long but I knew the life of an entertainer was the only dream that made me happy. Another man with sweet promises and I became that reserved pretty girl again. The ice block had melted. It wasn't a month before I was a Mrs. and handing off my bouquet to Sugar Motta, who took the title of maid of honor as serious as a heart attack; til death do she and I part.

It was karma. What else could explain it? I kill a sharp man with a slick tongue and get far enough away just to hitch my wagon to a meticulously slick man with the sharpest tongue. But the way he looked at me was different from most men. I wasn't a lamb and he wasn't a lion. He made me believe we were equals but with each grimy venue that his foolish magic act dragged me through, it became clearer that he was just another smooth talker who fancied himself a modern Gepetto and me the marionette missing my strings. Perhaps even I believed it myself. Maybe my perils weren't exactly the same as Pinocchio's but the escape from home was a familiar plight. Even with all his deceptions, I stayed by Blaine's pathetic side, knowing my place and not asking questions. After all, he'd given me a ride to the city of my dreams and, eventually, my very own stage to live them out on. There was no doubt in my mind that I could have killed another man but I knew I hadn't killed this one. I wasn't a murderess. Just a prime example of Darwin's theory in action. It's only natural for a lady to wanna protect herself. The lies from Blaine's serpent tongue had never marred my skin. A little sting to my ego would never drive me to daggers and bullets. At least I'd hope not. But it was clear that my past was catching up with me and doling out its own form of justice at somebody else's hand. Treated like a common criminal, I was. My name dragged through the mud and all for something I didn't do. But it was his name too. Even from six feet under, the shiny nickel of a man was entertaining the masses. He'd made a promise and kept it. No one in the nation would ever forget the name of Brittany Anderson or Britt Noir. Too bad Arizona was in that nation. My face plastered on all the major rags. Even if they never read the words, the image was enough to spark some interest. "The mug of an angel, heart of a killer!" one newsboy had shouted as he shoved the papers at the windows of the cars waiting for the green light. Court hadn't even been in session a fortnight when the clever slogans started ruining my smoke breaks. An angel with the heart of a killer might have ripped his freckles off his face then and there but I understood he had a job to do. Anything to earn a few cents. So there I was again. In the back of a cab, my suitcase already picked up from my former apartment and wondering about my next destination, knowing my arrival would be accompanied by the soothing sounds of screeching metal. I chanced a glance at the woman who had dared to care about my freedom even with her doubts about my innocence. When we first met she had looked at me like the men do. Like I was a lamb in need of saving. But she was no shepherd. She was a field mouse looking for a dry home for the night. I couldn't tell if her opinion of me had changed or not but that was my fault for playing on her obvious weakness. She was a caped crusader without a civilian to rescue. I blew her a kiss and a wish that she'd still be in good spirits when she eventually followed the aroma of my perfume to an envelope in her desk drawer. Without another thought of the remnants behind me, I looked forward to the next foothold with an anxious heart.

"We can go, driver."

* * *

_My dearest Santana,_

_I don't expect you to understand this completely but I implore you to at least try. You have been my hero as well as my conscience these past few weeks. They say a girl should be well trained in the art of dance. It's perfect practice for being able to know what a guy's going to do before he does it. I'm grateful you're not a dancer or you'd have stopped the taxi before I could even enter it. There's far too much about my past that you don't know and I would prefer that it stayed that way. But I must admit that your profession has kept me in fear of that not being in my control. I could ask you to forget the person I used to be but I doubt that would do. I don't take you much for the forgetful type. I'm sure we'll meet again but for now I need to go where the wind takes me. Some of us just aren't built sturdy enough to withstand the breeze. I'm so sorry for doing it this way but I hope my words reach you before someone else relays this message in a less pleasant tone. Please keep an eye on my sweet Sugar. I honestly don't know for sure who's to blame for my husband's death and I wouldn't want to return to this beautiful city for another funeral. Be nice to her. Get to know her. Who knows? She may surprise you._

_I've been a lot of places but nothing will ever measure up to this city you call home. But the most beautiful of all has been the rain. Everything made the color of wet cement, the heat still unrelenting to the cool drips of water pouring from the clouds. That bittersweet smell that wafts through the city. Would you think me peculiar if I said it's what I imagine morning dew to smell like? It's that promise of a brand new day that comes after the rain. How the sunrise makes all the remaining droplets sparkle across the city. That's you. You were my summer rain and I will never forget that, Santana. Thank you for giving me a new day. _

_Until we meet again,_

_Britt_

_XX_

* * *

_**A/N: NEMO's dedication: To Ginger(s everywhere).**  
_


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